


Que Sera, Sera

by artisticabandon



Category: Batman (Comics), DC Extended Universe, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: (this is Gotham quakes happen), Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Batfamily Feels, Blindfolds, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Building Collapse, Cameos, Comfort, Concussions, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Don't copy to another site, Duke Thomas is Signal, Earthquakes, Emotional Whump, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Medical, Mugging, No beta we die like mne, Rescue, Restraints, Stephanie Brown is Spoiler, Tags Contain Spoilers, Threats, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Whump, Whumptober 2020, Wounds, batfam, disorientation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artisticabandon/pseuds/artisticabandon
Summary: Life happens, often when we're not looking for it.--- Or ---It only takes a pebble to start an avalanche. In this family, it only takes a mugging/kidnapping to start, well,everything.(Also known as my entry to Whumptober2020. I have 31+ prompts for Whumptober and I aim to hit themallas much as possible in a series of connected prompt fills. Poor fam.)
Comments: 104
Kudos: 164
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. The Sound of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up restrained is _never_ a good thing... Not this kind, anyway. He’s done it often enough in his nightlife that it’s on his _hard no_ list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** I’m going to put the prompts at the start of each entry in this series (in addition to the tags), as although they can also be spoilers, I realize they could also be squicks or triggers for some. Hope this helps. Meanwhile, keep safe and keep healthy. :D  
>  **Prompts:** 1\. Waking up restrained + 24. Blindfolded + 25. Disorientation + 26. Concussion + 28. Mugged

In the end, he’s not sure what wakes him.

For a while, he just drifts. Stays in that half-awake, half-asleep stage where thinking is slow, but he’s also aware. 

Maybe. 

Everything’s dark. Heavy. He breathes. 

Is he asleep or awake? Maybe he’s both. 

Heavy. Dark. 

He shifts, a little, or tries to, and that wakes him up further. 

Oh. 

Ribs. Must’ve been in some kind of fight recently. 

He also notices the restraints on his wrists (Can’t move. Can’t. Move. Can’t. _Move_ ) and the blindfold (can’t see _where am I?_ ) round about the same time and his mood sinks. As he moves he hears the clinking of chains, and if anything, his mood plummets even further. 

Nothing good ever comes from waking up in restraints. 

Not this kind, anyway. He’s done it often enough in his nightlife that it’s on his _hard no_ list. 

What does it say about his life that he has experience in this sort of thing to know that? 

He then wonders idly if he was nabbed as a civilian or a hero. 

Wonders again what it says about his life that _this_ is a question he has to ask? 

He flexes a few muscle groups and does his best self-check he can. He can’t… he can’t feel his uniform. Or what parts of it people usually leave behind. 

Instead, he can feel denim. It scratches, just a little, against his legs. Heaviness on his feet. Boots? Is he wearing boots? There’s also warmth on his arms and back but not his chest… is that a jacket? Did they leave him a jacket or was he already wearing it? 

Does that mean this is a civilian thing? Is that going to be a good thing or a bad thing? 

Whatever. 

Wet. 

He’s lying in something _wet._ (Why? Wet with _what,_ don’t know, can’t _see,_ don’t really want to know…) 

He tries to lift his head a little to try and move away from the Wet Thing… and pain slashes across his skull. Its a dull hot but icy knife, and it wakes up a beating drum in his skull. 

No. It wakes up _all_ the drums, and none of them are in tune. 

Oh. 

That’s a… What’s the word? Con… Con… 

Con _cussion._ He’s concussed. 

The pain also brings with it flashes of memory. 

\--- 

_Walking. He was out walking.  
Where? Was he going somewhere?  
City. Buildings.  
Alley.  
Oh.  
Thugs.  
Turning, a fraction too slow, already feeling…  
What? Why is he slow? What’s wrong with him?  
"...my wallet…"  
Punches.  
Kicks.  
Ground.  
Flashy lights, so pretty… so p r e t t y . . .  
_

\--- 

Oh. 

He was… mugged? Assaulted? 

Whatever. 

Thinking _hurts._

He lays his head back down in the unavoidable wetness. And waits. 

_They’ll come for me._

He just has to wait. 


	2. Missing In Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finds out his boy is… missing. Emotions ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompts:** 2\. kidnapped + 17. Blackmail

Bruce will always remember where he is when this particular call comes. (He does for all them of this nature. Forever and always.) 

He’s in his office, thankfully, having just come from the boardroom. (He hates getting these types of calls in there. So… messy.) Its 4:31 pm, Tuesday afternoon. (Why is it always a Tuesday?) 

But because he’s in office, and it’s at the end of a long day, it takes him a long moment to find the phone when it rings. 

It’s his private cell. Not many people know the number. (How did they get the number? Does he really want to know?) 

Even worse. The caller’s number is blocked. 

He almost doesn’t answer, is the thing. Too much experience with scammers and telemarketers, cold callers, whoever the hell cares, and all he wants to do is wind down at the manor after a long day in the office. 

He almost doesn’t pick up. 

(It’ll keep him up at night, he knows, that he _almost didn’t answer the stupid phone._ What would’ve happened, if he’d never picked up?) 

But he does. He picks up the call, a breath already half inhaled and ready to tell whoever-it-is to go-to-hell-and-how-to-get-there if they’re a waste of his time. “This is Wayne.” 

But...they’re not a waste of his time. 

Oh, god. They’re not. 

`“Wayne.”`

He lets out the half breath. Voice synthesizer. On his private line. He knows instantly where this is going. There’s going to be threats, against him or his family. Possibly blackmail. Maybe even a death threat. He can only pray its not a kidnapping. He hates kidnappings with the passion of a thousand suns. 

And his day had been going so well. 

Automatically his hands move. This is his private cell. He is Bruce Wayne. He is also Batman. He is prepared for this. Its a matter of moments to activate the trace and recording features. 

And then it gets _worse._

`“We have your son.”`

_Hells bells._ He jerks back in his chair, his hands already clammy, and his thoughts racing. He’s been here before, done this enough, that his first thought is not for himself, but family. _My kids. Where are my kids?_

It’s 4:32 pm. Tuesday. 

They said _son,_ so his girls are safe. Dick is at the penthouse, recovering from the flu. Tim is still downstairs in the R&D office, stupid kid, thinking he has to work to earn affection (he totally blames the Drakes for that). Jason is on assignment off-world with the Outsiders, so he’s safe. Damien should be on the bus coming from the Academy. Duke...isn’t known to be associated with his family yet (despite his best efforts), and at the moment is helping Leslie with the clinic along with Spoiler. Harper is running the mechanic shop. So that means... it’s likely either Damian or Dick. If it was Duke...Leslie would’ve rung him. 

She would’ve. Wouldn’t she? 

His mouth is already dry. “Which one?” 

The snarky laugh comes through the synthesizer. `“The circus brat.”`

He swears again to himself. 

Dick. It’s Dick. 

_How long? How long have they had him?_ He doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t _know._

He scrambles for words, knowing already that he should be better at negotiating than this. “What do you want?” Because they _always_ want something. 

`“Twenty million.”` A beat. An eternity in a moment. `"You'll also admit to your company’s involvement in the unsafe WESH in Otisburg."`

Is that all? It feels like so much small change at the moment, with the life of one of his sons at stake. Granted the WESH (Wayne Enterprises Standardised Housing -- he’d wanted it to be WEST, something he could use to poke fun at the living West when he ran through his town, but he’d never been able to make the acronym work for him) thing is a bit different. (That its supposedly unsafe is also news to him, and something he notes to follow up later.) Regardless, he knows he’ll pay whatever they’re asking in a heartbeat, and gladly. It’s just that… he still has to know. Dear God, he has to _know._ His reply is immediate. “I want proof he’s still alive.” _Tell me he’s alive. Please._ He can already feel his heart pounding, and he has to breathe to bring it down. _Calm down, Bruce. Panicking won’t help._ Except it will, won’t it? He has to be the helpless dad, doesn’t he? 

But he _is_ helpless. He is. Stuck in an office all day while his son was out there… somewhere… who knows where... bleeding… maybe even dying already… 

`“We’ll ring back in an hour with your proof.”`

He opens his mouth to say… something, he’s never quite sure what, but they’re already gone. 

Gone. 

His only link to his son is gone. 

Gone. His son… gone. (Alone. He’s all alone. Again.) ( _Gunshot, pearls falling…_ ) 

No. 

_Hold it together, Bruce. You have an hour. You can do this._

Breathe. 

In. Hold. Out. Hold. 

In. Hold. Out. Hold. 

In. Hold. Out. Hold. 

In. Hold. Out. Hold. 

Marginally calmer, he forces himself to relax his grip on the phone, to turn off the recording and check the results of the trace. But its as he fears, they weren’t on long enough to get a result. 

Think. _Think._ What are his options? 

They said they had his son. No, they said they had the circus boy… so they’re already distancing themselves from their captive, which means they’re likely ready and willing to injure his son. And they rang his personal line. So… definitely not a Bat thing. 

He swears to himself again. He’ll have to handle this as Wayne, not Batman. Worse still, civilian kidnappings are… _messy._ He hates waiting, hates relying on others. 

And he’s already on a timeline. 

The clock is ticking. Fast. 

On the other hand, they didn’t tell him not to involve the cops. And that means GCPD or even FBI involvement. _Yay. Just what I didn’t want in my day today._ So… they’ll be _expecting_ ‘poor Brucie Wayne’ to reach for the cops to help him. And why shouldn’t he give them what they want? And even better still, they didn’t tell him not to involve anyone a little… more _super._ Or a bat... 

He grins to himself in dark humor. 

He is a Wayne. But he is also Batman. One hour will be plenty of time. 


	3. Highway to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all downhill from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompts:** 3\. Manhandled + 3. Forced to knees + 11. Defiance

Eventually, the waiting pays off, but not in a way that Dick expects. 

Certainly, not in a way that he’s hoping. 

He must’ve fallen into a doze somewhere along the line because the next thing he knows he’s hearing a door opening and a strange voice. 

Not Batman’s voice. 

No sirens. 

No rescue then. 

Wait. The voice is yelling. He must’ve blanked out for a moment. “Get up!” 

Right. That’s gonna hurt. 

But he’s done this often enough that he knows that his feelings are kind of secondary at the moment. His role in this kind of thing, especially as a civilian, is to play along until the rescue comes. Or he sees a shot at escape he can reasonably take. 

Would be helpful if he could see what he was doing, though. 

He slowly rolls onto his side, careful not to move his head too much. Not that it helps. He gasps his way through the movement, pain drumming through his skull, nausea rolling in his stomach. Maybe if his head fell off, he’d feel better… 

Ugh, bad image. 

He clenches his eyes shut behind the blindfold. Right now, he realizes, the dark is actually helping, providing less input for his poor abused brain to handle. 

Maybe if he finally went through with the throwing up thing, he’d feel better. He doubts it, but you know, any bit helps right now. 

A punch to his side comes out of literally nowhere. “Get up!” 

Oof. 

Breathe. 

Focus. 

Right. Get up. 

He does his best to curl his legs underneath him and finds that yeah, one leg won’t go as far as the other. Chained, as he thought. 

Whatever. _Get up, Grayson._

He’s gonna pay for this later. 

It's... awkward. 

His hands are tied behind him and his legs can only go so far. He ends up doing as much he can while pressing his head to the floor. The cool stone soothes the pounding drums, gives him the focus he needs to push them back. 

Then he sorta rolls to one shoulder and _heaves,_ pushing himself up using his core and legs alone. Its… not pretty, and he imagines he looks like an ungainly teen or something. OK, an ungainly teen with half their limbs. 

But he gets there, even if he has to pause halfway through to breathe through his mouth. This nausea is kicking his ass. 

So he’s standing. Sorta. And he knows right away that he’s made the worst mistake since he woke up here. 

Because later is now. 

The vomit comes before he’s ready, as it always does, and he’s retching, heaving then dry-heaving, tears streaming down his face as his body turns itself inside out. He tries to lean out, tries to aim for the floor, or at least miss himself, but he can’t tell how much success he has. 

He’ll settle for not falling over and then have to get up again, because man, that was _brutal._

Then there’s yelling and slapping, and that tells him that wow, his aim wasn’t that good after all. 

Or maybe it was spot on. 

He winces when someone (male, angry, gun user, bad hygiene) grabs his hair and uses it to pull his head back and to the side so far that he stumbles trying to follow it. “You’ll pay fer that.” 

Yep. Totally bad aim. 

Angry Dude lets go of his head with a push, and yeah, he can already tell where this is going. He doesn’t need to see to brace himself. 

He’s right. The punch comes right on schedule if a bit more powerful and targeted than he’d like. Right on the abdomen. _Idiot. Like that's gonna help._ He curls in over himself, and yeah, he'll be feeling that for a while. 

At least he doesn't fall over. Right now, he'll take his bonuses where he can find them. 

He hears the clink of chains and rattling, and does his best not to tense. The light pressure on his ankle that he wasn’t even aware of (thanks concussion but no thanks) is gone. He’s technically free… except for the fact that his hands are tied, he’s got a blindfold, and there are who knows how many people in the room. 

Hah. He’s faced harder odds and not broken a sweat. 

At night. As Nightwing. 

In the day, as Dick Grayson? He'll have to work a bit harder. So… light sweat, maybe? 

He’s still figuring out how to use this to his advantage -- damn drums in his skull are _not_ helping -- when Angry Dude grabs hold of his wrists and _twists._ He gasps and bends with the movement, knowing he’s just given away a huge button for his captors to press but desperate to avoid a broken wrist. Or wrists, plural. 

His wrists are a sore spot, okay? He’s an acrobat and a vigilante. His wrists are always giving him grief, always a little bit sprained, and having them twisted is. Not. Helping. 

Somehow he ends up half kneeling to try and take the strain off. It’s not working, not _well,_ and then Angry Dude shifts his grip so he’s holding his wrists with one hand, tightens his grip even more, and then grabs hold of his hair to yank his head back. At this rate, he’s gonna lose hair in chunks. 

“Does this look good?” he hears Angry Dude ask. 

Wait. 

What? 

“Yep,” someone answers. Female. Rough. Raspy. Like she spends a lot of time screaming… maybe at Angry Dude. Or maybe at the world. “I got everythin’ ready to go.” 

“Take some pictures before you start rolling.” 

He hears shutter sounds, and then it makes a sick kind of sense. They want photos first. Either as a trophy for themselves or to send to Bruce. He hopes it’s to Bruce, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it’s not. It’s just the way today’s gone. 

“Done,” says Raspy Lady. “And… rolling.” 

`“Wayne.”`

He jerks a little at that. After all this time hearing everyone’s voices, the synthesizer surprises him. He hadn’t guessed they’d be that smart. 

`“You wanted proof. Here's your proof.”`

With a jerk, Angry Dude let's go of his hair to tear off the blindfold. 

Honestly, between the two options, of possibly losing some hair or finally seeing what's going on around him, he'd rather have kept the blindfold thanks. Greater odds for getting out of this thing alive. 

As it is, he's squinting into this bright spotlight thing that's directly in front of him, strategically placed to shine directly in his eyes. After so long in the dark and to then have his eyes be assaulted by so much light, they're instantly tearing up. 

To be honest, he couldn't see all that much right now even if he wanted to. 

`"Go on. Tell your old man something."`

Right. 

He might be sore, hurting in all sorts of fun places, eyes watering, but this? This he doesn't have to think about. This is Pysch 101. Or maybe Kidnapee 102, he’s always been a bit ahead of the class. He stares down the light and grins. "Go to hell." 

Angry Dude jerks his head back. `“Wrong answer.”`

Which of course, today’s luck being what it is, is when his day goes to hell. 


	4. Shaken, Not Stirred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sending the video does not go to plan, aka Gotham steps in where Batman can’t. Being a city and not a person, she doesn’t quite get it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompts:** 5\. alt 11 Presumed Dead + 27. Earthquake + 31. Left for dead

The thing about Gotham is that it’s not time that makes one a local, nor is it having three generations (or more) buried in the nearest cemetery. 

What makes one a Gothamite is the _experiences._

There are the usual ones in a big city. Riding the subway after dark. Going for walks in the gang areas… after dark. Sampling some of the city’s famous cuisine. Coffee at the cafes. Taking pictures of the city’s murals, street art, and renowned gothic architecture. And so on. 

Then there were the experiences unique to Gotham. Surviving a Joker encounter. Encountering fear gas and laughing about it afterward. Planting more plants because you’d seen Ivy. Seeing the flash of a cape past your window. 

And the big one. Going through a ‘quake or an aftershock, remnants of the Big One that they all knew about but didn’t talk about. Ever. They called them Shakes, in the local lingo. Mostly because they’ll leave people (and buildings) shaking, sometimes for hours. 

The worst ones… well, sometimes the Shakes are that bad that things collapse. In all sorts of bad ways. 

* * *

Dick’s the one that hears it first. 

Of course, his hearing is trained by nights of living on the edge, literally listening out for danger. He’s trained to listen for this exact sound. The rumbles of an oncoming Shake doesn’t surprise him -- they’ve been happening with unpleasant regularity since the Big Shake, the one that led to the year of No Man’s Land for the city. No, what surprises him is how close it starts...and that no one else is hearing it. 

He has, he thinks, maybe seconds to act. If that. 

“Shake!” he yells out. 

Angry Dude and Raspy Lady jerk their heads up, and… yeah, there it is. 

The ground is already starting to tremble. 

Angry Dude drops him like he’s a lump of hot coal and _runs._ Where to, he’s not sure, can’t really see past the light shining his direction. There are not many places one can go to hide from a Shake (it’s not like he sees a table nearby), but hey, A+ for effort. Solid D- for imagination. 

Problem: his hands are still tied behind him, and he also really needs to find a safe place. Well, okay, he can fix one problem. It’s a short matter to bring his legs up and scoot his arms around to the front. 

Raspy Lady takes a few steps away but then turns around. 

She comes over to him as the trembling starts to pick up in earnest, determination in her expression. “Did you mean it?” she half-asks and half-yells. 

_Hells bells. What a time to ask._ “Mean what?” 

“When you told him to go hell!” 

“Hell yes!” And a hundred times, yes. But why was she asking _now,_ when the earth was doing its best to unseat them??? 

She pulls out a knife from an arm holster, and his eyes widen. It’s not… exactly a small knife. No, this is a knife meant to damage. 

It’s also sharp. She uses it to cut through the ropes on his wrists in a few quick cuts, and then he’s finally, thankfully, free. 

She straightens upright as the Shake intensifies _again._ It’s at the point where it’s getting hard to maintain their footing, the walls are shaking, and plaster is falling from the ceiling. Raspy Lady and he exchange a look. They’re both Gotham locals. A Shake at this level, for this duration… they know what this means. 

Its gonna be one of the bad ones. 

In unison, they drop for the floor and cover their heads. 

They don't have the time for anything other than that, because then the world comes crashing down around them. 

* * *

Bruce Wayne stares at the video screen as it dissolves into static. 

That is… 

That... 

Yeah. 

He gets the advantage of a live video stream, he really does, but is there such a thing as _too Live?_ If there is, he thinks he just experienced it. 

As hard as it was to watch his son being hurt, it was even harder to watch being buried by a building collapsing around him. To know Dick is out there, somewhere, living, breathing ( _bleeding, dying_ ) but just out of reach… 

And all he could do was _watch._

The machine in his head snaps him back to reality when it picks up the rattling-rumbling sound and connects it to what he just watched. 

Shake. 

Right. 

“Everyone, hold on!” he calls out and braces himself. 

It’s not himself that he’s worried about. (He never is.) 

He has a mixed contingent of FBI and GCPD in his office, following his report of the abduction of his son. (High profile kidnappings are like that. _Messy._ Give him the simplicity of the cowl any day.) He has what’s left of his family in the Manor and the Cave, as well as the JLA on call, working the case for him, filling in where he can’t. 

But the Manor will be fine. The Caves… his _family_ … will be fine, as long they’re there. He made sure of that after the first Big Shake. 

Its everyone else (his city, his family… his missing _son_ ) that he worries about. 

It seems to take forever for the shaking and rattling to pass. For the Tower to stop swinging as it absorbs the shaking from below. 

When it finally does, there’s scattered comments and check-ins from across the room as everyone checks on each other. (And yeah, the Manor passed the test. He can see the message light blinking on his phone, for the all-clear.) 

Montoya, who’s leading the GCPD contingent as a favor from Jim to him, gets a message on the radio and then comes up to him. “Mister Wayne. I’m afraid it’s a standing protocol for all officers on duty to go back to HQ in the event of a shake of this magnitude.” 

It takes a moment for what she’s saying to sink in. The GCPD is leaving. And yeah, he gets it. He does, truly he does. He _knows_ that they have bigger fish (a shaken city) to handle right now. (His own fingers are itching to pull on his cowl and go out there and check on his city.) But the father in him disagrees. Vehemently. 

At this moment, the father wins this fight. “What about Dick?” 

This time its an FBI agent. What was the name again? Agent… Todd. “I’m afraid we have to agree with the GCPD in this case. With how close your son was to the estimated epicenter, and the estimated structural damage we saw…” 

He can see that they’re trying to be gentle. Trying to break the news gently. They don’t believe his son is alive. They think the shake… the collapsed building... 

…No. 

He _knows_ his son. He would _know_ if he was dead. 

He would. 

Wouldn’t he? 

Yes. 

He would. 

He shakes his head and firms his stance. “I’m sorry, and I hear what you’re trying to say, but… my son is _alive._ I will believe that until I have evidence to the contrary.” And maybe not even then, because, in this family, Death has a habit of not really sticking. 

He can already see they will not be swayed. They already believe his son dead. Buried. In the grave. 

No. 

Not on his watch. 

He gathers up the shreds of his patience. He just has to see both parties out the door (an easy job if they’re already so determined to leave), and then he can start searching.

His way. 

_Finally._


	5. And The Walls Tumble Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the dust settles and they close their eyes… they find themselves stuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompts:** 4\. Buried alive & collapsed building + 6. “Get it out” + 7. Enemy to Caretaker & Support + 19. Survivor’s Guilt

Dick wakes up with a gasping cough, breath catching in the back of his throat. His eyes fly open in alarm. It’s an instant struggle to breathe, and this is _not good._

Very not good. 

_Breathe. Just breathe, dammit._ He can get through a lot of things if he could just _breathe._ But his breath catches again, sticking in his throat, in his ribs and in fiery trail along his back, and his eyes finally focus enough to realize why. 

Dust. 

It’s everywhere. 

He must be inhaling it with every breath. He can already feel it sticking in his mouth. _Gah._ He’s already so parched… He’d kill for some water, anything to get rid of the taste of this god-awful dust. 

Instinctively he goes to ask what happened, “W---Wha---” but that’s about all he can get out before his voice fails him and he has to cough again. 

He immediately wishes he hadn’t, when the cough lights up his ribcage and across his back in fire and pain. _Huh. Bruised, maybe broken ribs. Good to know._ He immediately starts breathing shallowly. Not his best option, not by a long shot, but it’s the best he can do until he can get medical help. Or until medical help comes to him. Whichever comes first. 

“Oh good, you’re awake.” 

Oh. 

There’s someone here. Who sounds… happy to hear from him? That’s good, right? 

The voice also triggers off memories. Kidnapping. Being tied up. The video. Angry Dude and Raspy Lady. The Shake… and Raspy Lady staying. 

Right. 

He clears his throat and tries again, although what saliva he can manage doesn’t help much. “Wha… happen?” 

There’s the sound of shifting rubble from somewhere, maybe to the left and back. It’s further back than he can turn his head, anyways. “The buildin’ collapsed in the Shake.” 

Yeah. Kind of obvious, not really what he was asking, but okay. _Move on, Grayson._ “Where…” 

Raspy Lady (because he hears enough now to hear that yeah, it is her) snorts. “I weren’t supposed to tell ya. Don’t matter now, though.” Rubble shifts again. “We’re in the WESH development in Otisburg. Or what’s left of it.” 

Well, hell. Isn’t that a kick in the shins? Last he’d heard, that had only just been delivered on target and on time. He’s guessing kind of not, given it was _unstable enough to collapse in a Shake._ Okay, so it was one of the rarer bad Shakes, but still. It still shouldn’t have happened. _Bruce is gonna make some heads roll when he finds out about this,_ he thinks to himself. 

He discovers he has enough movement to clench his left hand (trying on his right is just _PAIN_ ), even though both his wrists feel like they’re trapped on either side of him. “Was… anyone living here?” 

Silence. 

Its answer enough. 

He clenches his eyes shut again and swallows against a lump in his throat. _Definitely heads rolling._ It won’t help, won’t soothe the grief (or the guilt, oh gods, the _guilt_ ) (how many? How many people died that he could have prevented? If he’d only known?) he can already feel beckoning at the edges of his heart… but _someone_ has to pay for this. 

Because Bruce is a Wayne. And he is also Batman. Someone, somewhere, will _pay_ for this. 

More to the point, Dick is also a Wayne. And he is also Nightwing. If B doesn’t follow up, _he will._

He just has to get out of here first. 

Which… is easier said than done. He’s not exactly… _comfortable_ where he’s lying. He remembers dropping face down onto the ground, hands over his head in the standard Drop And Cover position, but somehow he’s ended up on his back with his limbs all over the place. He can see as far as a big heavy beam that seems to be resting over his right side, but not much else. (Probably just as well, he really should be keeping his neck as still as possible judging by how much it aches.) His right hand is stuck somewhere, still up near his head, but his left arm is flung out and trapped somewhere to the side. There is also the matter of what seems to be a few busted ribs, as well as another heavy thing pressing on his legs. 

But hey, at least he can _feel_ his legs, especially after a building basically fell on him. _It could always be worse. I could be dead right now..._

First things first. 

He clears his throat. Or tries to. The dust doesn’t really help. “You...okay?” 

The rubble shifts. “Well enough. I’m not trapped as bad as you are, anyway.” 

Please. He doesn’t need a reminder right now. “What’s...your name?” Anything would be better than calling her Raspy Lady. 

“...Angelina. Friends call me Angie. Or Angel.” 

The dust catches his throat again and he coughs and groans his way through the pain spike. _Ugh._ “Pleased… to meetcha.” 

He breathes as deep as he can and tries to think. He just… He needs a way _out._ He’s fairly sure that they’re not too deeply buried since he can see light filtering down now that his eyes have adjusted. This means that there is also air coming in, thank goodness for that. More to the point, he needs a way for _people to find them._

Wait. 

There is a distress/panic button built into his watch. One of B’s added “features” that right now he’s definitely not complaining about. If he could just reach it… or move his left arm back closer to his head and nearer his other hand… It would at least make him (them) easier to find. 

Which means he has to _move_ his hand. Right. 

“Can---” He grimaces, coughs again, and promptly swallows down the pain. God, but his ribs and his back are killing him. This beam or whatever leaning against his torso must be heavier than it looks. “Can you… move at all?” 

The rubble shifts and he hears the sound of something falling. “Probably better than you.” 

Fair point. “I… can you get… my left hand out?” 

“Why?” 

“My watch. I need to… my watch.” 

She snorts. “Knowing the time ain’t gonna help you here.” The rubble shifts again. “It’ll only make it worse.” 

Yeah. Clock-watching while waiting for rescue. Not a fun pastime. Metal strikes metal somewhere (other survivors? _Please_ let that be other survivors) and the dull headache he thought had gone away suddenly ramps up to around 7 or 8 on his pain scale, starting at the base of his skull and crawling up his skull with dull, hot tentacles. He clenches his eyes shut again and does his best to hold his neck still. “No,” he grits out. “Button… panic.” 

“Oh. Hang on.” He dimly hears rubble shifting, and then the pressure against his left wrist and forearm (that he wasn’t even aware of, not in amongst all the other aches, so what did that say about how bad he was injured?) is suddenly gone. _Gone._

He can move. At least that part of him can _move._

He gingerly eases the arm back in front of him to rest it against the beam. There are enough pins and needles in his arm, his own body’s complaint at the restricted blood flow and position, that he feels like he could start up his own sewing club. It also tells him that when he finally gets the rest of him free, it’s only going to be worse. 

Joy. 

Something to look forward to, at least. 

A glance at the watch tells him all he needs to know. Whatever was trapping his arm must also have been resting on his watch. On the one hand, it probably saved him from a crushed or broken wrist. (Small mercy.) On the other hand, his watch… did not fare that well. _Hah. Indestructible my foot. I hope the warranty covers this. Hells, I just hope the panic button works._

He looks at his watch, feels how trapped his other hand still is, and grimaces. "Can you…" 

"How does it work?" 

Oh, thank goodness. "Just... hold button… screen flashes…” 

“That’s it?” 

He swallows against a cough, does his best to push it down. “...Yeah.” Bruce, after all, designed it for simplicity, ruggedness, and economy of movement combined with preventing it from being pressed by accident. Technically, he’s supposed to touch the screen to acknowledge, but that’s smashed beyond recognition now. If the button works, he’ll call it good. (Also, he dimly recalls Bruce telling him once that pressing the button without pressing the screen works the same way… sorta. God, he hopes that’s true.) 

He can feel hands, shaking, fumbling against his wrist. They look as dusty as he feels. They’re also streaked with blood, and he curses himself all over again for being selfish, for being satisfied with the simple answer earlier. 

He forces himself to wait for the long agonizing seconds while she presses the button. “How long?” she asks, her fingers warm against his wrist while she holds it down. 

He doesn’t remember. “...Screen?” 

She snorts. “Yeah, no.” His watch is silent, dead. Unresponsive. (This doesn’t bode well.) 

He figured that'd be the case. “Try… ten seconds.” It’s as good a number as any. 

Her fingers let go, and his wrist feels cold again. Or maybe that’s him. "There's blood… your fingers…" 

"Yeah," she says dismissively. "Minor head wound and they always bleed like anythin’. It's stopped now." 

Oh, well. That's fair enough. 

Now, all they can do is wait. 

* * *

For the record, Batman wasn’t lying when he said the panic button would work in his watches if the screen wasn’t pressed. It did work. The panic signal did activate. And it did launch itself (rather enthusiastically) into what remained of the nearby wifi network. 

The problem is this: 

Without the screen press, there is no thumbprint to authenticate the signal and no measured heartbeat to determine the level of urgency. With the watch mostly broken, there is no location to go with the alert, just the nearest cell tower it came from. It becomes… just another alert, sent out into the ether, looking for a place to land. (And while Batman had worked out an upgrade to the watch for just this scenario, Dick had never surrendered his watch for it.) 

The place the signal lands… is in Oracle’s systems. Who, quite understandably at the moment, is deluged with handling calls from the Shake, and with helping the JLA -- Gotham’s Shake had actually been minor, compared the quake on the other side of the tectonic plate, and the tsunami that follows (and that Superman is working on defusing). 

Being just a general alert, it only blinks on her screen for a few times (along with all the other alerts flashing from Gotham) and then disappears into the daily log. 


	6. Stuck In The Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is a Wayne. But he is also Batman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** Emotional whump ahoy!  
>  **Prompts:** 8\. Alt 2. Stoic Whumpee

Batman pauses a moment to breathe on top of the WE Tower and curses again the way this day has worked against him. And that’s the key point, there, _day._ He’s not a fan of daytime work. Never has been. Not enough shadows to work with. Too much light. 

As far as he’s concerned, the only thing in his favor is that he was at WE Tower when this whole thing started. It gave him a relatively central starting point. Of course, it also means he’s central to the chaos of a shaken Gotham… and everything that entails. 

To get to his son… he has to go through Gotham to the northern island, to the north-western district. And he _knows_ he’s incapable of going past someone in need without stopping to help. And that’s without the drama of a possible Arkham escape, which is a 50/50 thing with a Shake of any magnitude. _Stupid Arkham, stupid revolving door policy, stupid stupid stupid…._

He thins his lips. 

Prioritize. He has to prioritize. 

Gotham. Dick. Gotham. Dick. 

His city. His son. 

He cannot save them both. He is only one man. 

It’s an impossible choice. He can’t make it. Because he is a Wayne. And he is also Batman. He is both. And he is himself. He cannot choose. 

He can. He will. He _has to._

He’ll have to take emotion out of it, take _himself_ out of the picture… Because as much as he wants to be there for Dick, to be the one that digs him out (by his hands if necessary, he’ll do it, just watch him, he’ll not have _another son_ dying buried under rubble), he _knows_ he can’t be there. (But he’s _so close._ ) His city is calling, and dammitalltohell, but he has to answer. He _has to._

Because while he is a Wayne… he is also Batman. 

In the end, the _only_ thing that decides him is his location. He’s in the center of Gotham. And his only lead on his son’s location is something that Dick’s captors said on that first call, something about the WESH development in Otisburg...at the very north-western end of Gotham. And he knows all too well it could be a red herring. But Otisburg is just a few districts to the west of Crime Alley. And Signal, Robin, and Spoiler are much closer than he will ever be, especially since Signal and Spoiler are at the clinic and Robin _should_ still be in the Cave running comms. (And if he himself just happens to work his way north in his patrol… well, what of it?) 

He’d like to leave Robin in the Cave, on comms (its far too early in the kid’s life to see his city like this) but he knows Robin. Keeping his kid out of this is like trying to keep a chicken from laying an egg. Its always going to happen. (Hells, he'd like to keep all of his kids out of this, but that ship's sailed long ago.) The best he can do is direct it and plan for it. 

So… If Robin takes one of the Bat vehicles (though knowing him, any excuse to take the Batmobile will do), he’ll probably take the exit through the old Gotham subways. That should put him close to Crime Alley, and Signal and Spoiler. Yeah, that would cut down dramatically on the search time. Then Signal or Spoiler can stay at the clinic to help Leslie, and the other can join Robin in the search. 

There. It’s decided. 

He leaps off the tower into the city, fingers already dancing over the comms to his family. 


	7. Failure Is Not An Option

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Houston, we have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompts:** 12 Broken bones + 16.alt1 Punctured + 18. Panic & Paranoia

Waiting is _not_ his favorite pastime. Actually, it’s not even in the _same ballpark_ as his favorite activity. That’s not to say that Dick’s not good at it. He does it often enough in his night job that he’s something of an expert at waiting. But that doesn’t mean that he _enjoys_ it. 

He’s especially not fond of lying trapped in a collapsed building, waiting for other people to rescue him. He’d rather be the rescu _er_ , not the one being rescu _ed_. 

But that’s the whole point of being trapped, isn’t it? Is not like he _chose_ to be here. 

If he had a choice, right now, he's pretty sure he'd be eating something right now. Or with his family. 

Then again, he's not sure of the time, not even sure how long he's been here (forever, the answer is always forever), but he knows from the emptiness in his stomach that he’s been here a while. From the dryness in his mouth. If this keeps going, dehydration is going to be a thing. 

Okay, a thing more than it already is. 

He licks his lips, but it doesn’t help. Not much does. What would help was being able to _move._ But all he can move is, well, he can move his left arm, thanks to his companion. (Angie. Or Angel. And really, he can’t think of a more fitting name right now.) He can move his head if he really wants to, but his neck tells him resoundingly that that’s a _bad idea,_ and he’s smart enough to listen. It’s probably muscle damage (he’s _hoping_ it’s just stressed muscles), but still. He’s fond of his neck, thanks. And his legs… well, even though there’s some kind of weight on his legs, he can wiggle his toes, so that’s something. Always look on the bright side, right? 

It's his right arm that’s worrying him. That he’s trying not to think about. Because every time he’s tried to move it, even a little, his arm... it hates him and is quite happy to tell him so. For that matter, so does his ribs around to his back. (He doesn’t want to think about all the possible reasons why. But he knows equally well he’s going to have to. And soon.) 

_Face it, Grayson. You don’t go around an obstacle, you go through it._

_Yeah, thanks, Bruce. Very helpful. Thanks._

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? He _has_ to face it. 

“Yer quiet,” says Angie. “You alright in there?” 

“I…” _Face it, Grayson._ He swallows. This is going to be bad. But it has to be done. “Can you see… my other arm…? It doesn’t… feel right.” Understatement of the century there, but he has to work with what words his body will let him get out. Stupid ribs. 

“Huh. Hang on.” 

Once again he hears rubble shifting as Angie moves her weight around. There’s a glorious moment when the pressure on his arm _shifts,_ almost lifts, and then it comes back and he hears swearing. A lot of it. He grins into the half-dark. She could give Jason a run for his money. (And just like that, he misses his brother so bad he wants to cry. Stupid emotions.) 

“Uh, can you feel ya arm?” 

Not really. “Uh, not… really. I know it's… trapped somewhere… and moving it… gonna be a… thing.” He'd also like to _breathe_ properly (so he can talk in complete sentences) at some point today, but he's pretty much given up on that too. 

“Right. If I lift again, can you… try? Just… lift the arm as the whole thing.” 

Okaaay. Bit of a weird request, but whatever. 

He goes for it anyway, and… and, yeah, okay, his arm hurts. He’s either badly hurt or sprained something, he’s not really sure. Because he can’t really feel it through the fire of pain suddenly screaming at him from his _back_ of all things. He bites down on his lip, promising himself that he’s not going to swear or scream. 

Either option is going to be bad. _Not in front of a lady, Grayson,_ he thinks to himself dizzily, _that’s just rude._ (Especially since once he starts… he’s not gonna stop.) 

He’s not quite sure how he manages to get his arm around in front (Bruce. He’ll blame Bruce and his pain techniques.) but he does it. Even if he wants to cry, scream, fall in a heap, faint, (all of the above) by the time he’s done, but he does it. He can feel the sweat beading on his forehead, dripping down, and knows he must look a sight. 

Actually, he _really_ mustn’t look good, because Angie sounds worried. “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it your arm?” 

His arm? He blinks and finally notices that his arm is, in fact, broken. Closed fracture. (Yay.) But that’s the least of his worries compared to the _fire_ that seems to be lodged in his upper back. 

He shakes his head. 

“Can you tell me?” 

Oh, gods. She wants him to be coherent? 

He shakes his head again and gasps for breath, trying desperately to shove the pain back down, but somehow that makes it worse. Instinct makes him cradle his bad arm to his chest and try to hunch over it protectively, but--- 

Oh. 

_Oh._

Dammit. 

His mouth runs dry as he quickly presses himself back down and a silent litany of swears fills his brain. (It’s one advantage of being a polyglot. He can swear for _ages._ ) “My back,” he finally gasps out. “Its… my back.” 

He waits anxiously for the sound of the rubble shifting, for the answer to come. 

(But he knows.) 

(Oh gods. He already knows.) 

And it does. The words come all too soon. 

She swears herself and starts tearing at fabric. “Uh, Houston, we have a problem.” 

He likes his lips futilely. “Yeah?” 

“Do you want the good news or bad news?” 

_Oh, gods._ He closes his eyes for a moment and does his best to clear his mind. It’s going to be _all bad_ if she’s trying to break it to him this gently. “Bad first.” 

“There’s a… uh, bar thing. Through your back. Upper right side.” Matching her words, he can feel fabric being poked in around there, under where he’s lying. 

A moment, an eternity as it sinks in. He was right. It’s bad. He’s seen people impaled before. It’s a thing that happens with unfortunate regularity with the vigilante gig. And he knows the statistics. They aren’t good. They certainly aren’t in his favor. He tries to breathe deeper than he has been, to try to keep the panic at bay, and… yeah. Now that he _knows,_ he can _feel_ it in his back, pulling at his shoulder and across his ribs and in every breath. 

He wonders dimly why he didn’t feel it earlier, but knows from experience that adrenaline and shock can hide injuries. And not always in a healthy way. 

“Good news is,” she rushes on, as if there’s good news in a time like this, “its kind of… angled. I think. Maybe. But I can’t see how deep it is, or if it goes completely through. I _think_ it misses your spine. Can you…” 

“Yeah,” he says grimly. “One of the… first things I… checked.” He checks again to make sure, and yeah, legs present and accounted for. Yep, _definitely_ present. 

He swallows down the instinctual urge to demand to _get it out, get it out now._ He knows better. He does. They need to keep it in as long as possible, as long as the thing is sealing the wound and he’s not bleeding excessively, he’ll be fine. 

He’ll be fine. 

Uh, hang on. He needs to check that bleeding thing, doesn’t he? _Calm. Just… stay calm._ “Is it… bleeding?” 

“Yeah, but not… badly. Well, okay, I’ve seen worse.” She sounds unsure. “The angle… It's hard to see, and I can’t really get my hand in to put pressure on it.” A pause. “It, uh, I can see it pulling open when you, uh, breathe." 

Right. He’ll probably be fine, then, as long as he doesn’t move. Or breathe, apparently. Or cough. Or---- 

Stop. 

Stop it _now._

_Stop._

He clenches his eyes shut and shoves his body through the breathing exercises Bruce taught him years ago. In. Hold. Out. Hold. And again. In. Hold. Out. Hold. And again. In. Hold. Out. Hold. And again. In. Hold. Out. Hold. 

And again. 

And again. 

It helps and it doesn't help. He's still panicking, he can feel it scrabbling at the corners of his brain, but at least now it's in its own little compartment (he'll deal with it later, feel the full-on panic later, but he knows he can't afford a full-on panic attack now). In a way, all it really does is make him even _more_ conscious of his breathing. Which is _not_ helpful right now. 

_Stop it, Grayson._

_STOP._

_Just… Refocus, Grayson. Focus._ (He'll take _anything_ but his back as a distraction right now.) 

He breathes into the dusty darkness and does his best not to cough. That would be… unpleasant right now. "So, uh… why the Angel thing?" 

"Huh?" 

"I'm trying to… distract myself. Humor me." 

"Yeah, OK." There's a moment's silence. "Its kinda embarrassing, but I loved snow angels as a kid. It… stuck." 

Fair enough. "Why the… WESH thing?" 

"What do you mean?" 

Oh, gods. Where does he begin? _Start small, Grayson, work your way up._ "Why here?" 

"Oh, well that's easy…" 


	8. Down The Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like finding a needle in a haystack (except they keep finding the wrong needles). Until...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** This is my first time writing a batkid that’s not Dick _and_ given them a starring role in my chapter. :D I’ve probably mashed universes together to make this work… but canon is what I mash together to make my jam. ;)  
>  **Prompts:** 14.Alt11. Presumed dead

It’s been, Spoiler decides, kind of a surreal day. 

She’d started the day as usual. Just because she has the Waynes (plural, definitely plural there) in her life now doesn’t make _that_ much of a difference. 

Wake up. Handle the parental unit (singular today, thank _god_ ). Breakfast, also singular today. Public transport, ho-hum, catch a few ‘z’s on the way. Totally _smash_ her way through school, because yeah, she really was that awesome. Then over to Leslie’s for extracurricular credits (and keep an ear out for any info for her _night work_ ). 

Standard ho-hum kinda day, really. 

Until right about when Leslie got The Call. 

And then _she_ got handed the phone. 

Seriously. Important. Times. No one _ever_ wanted to talk to little ol’ Stephanie Brown. 

“Yeah…” 

It was from Barbara. “Steph, thank god, you’re there. You’re ok.” 

“Yeah,” she replied, stronger this time. “What’s going on?” 

“...It’s Dick. He’s been kidnapped.” 

She gripped the wall. Dick. He’s the big brother she’s never had but wished she did. He’s been the stabilizing influence in her crazy family life. It was like someone’s ripped the floor from underneath her. “Right.” 

“I was ringing to make sure you’re safe, that no one’s approached you.” 

She’d had to take a moment to breathe, to rake her memory. “I… No, nothing’s happened here.” 

“Let me know _the instant_ it does.” And then she’d been gone. (Barbara had never been one to say goodbyes -- they were too final.) And Stephanie had gone back to her day. 

Of course, when things _did_ change, there’d been no one to tell, because everyone _knew._ Shakes were like that. They rattled everyone, especially the locals. 

She was with Leslie when it came, standing in an empty exam room. Her first instinct had been to grab at medicine cabinets and the filing cabinets, to stop them from toppling over, but then Leslie had dragged her under the exam table. They’d huddled their together in the Drop And Cover position, hearts in their throats, waiting it out. 

Those thirty seconds of shakings rate right up there in her top five Things Not To Do Again, and that included seeing her father again. 

It’d taken them a few moments to crawl out from under the table when things quietened down. Steph had instinctively taken a few quick steps away, but turned back, torn. Should she stay or should she go? Help here or help out _there_? 

Leslie had shaken her head fondly. “Go.” 

“But---” 

“ _Go._ I’ll be fine. I’m trained for this, Steph. Go do what you’re trained for.” 

And… somehow that conversation leads to her being _here._

Here being sitting in the Batmobile, dressed as Spoiler, watching the thermal sensors for signs of life while Robin drove. 

And, seriously, what was up with that? She’s older, she should be driving! But because he’d been driving it first, he’d told her to get in the passenger seat. The passenger seat! Of the Batmobile! (Yes, hello, _Batmobile,_ she’ll do her happy dance later, because she ~~never~~ hardly ever got to ride in the damned thing, but still. It’s the principle of the thing.) 

And another thing, what’s the kid doing, thinking the Batmobile is appropriate after a Shake? She eyes the narrow streets, made worse by the rubble, and grimaces. 

If there was one thing that Otisburg shared with The Narrows, its narrow streets. And the Batmobile is _not_ designed for narrow streets. (There’s one thing it _is_ designed for, but she’s careful not to think that around Batman.) 

“We really should’ve taken the BatCycles,” she comments, after one particularly close shave. If they have to go back through this in a hurry, or turn around… yeah. That’ll be _fun._

Robin just grunts and keeps driving. 

To be fair, it’s a credit to the work his family’s done with him that he doesn’t just snark back at her or worse. (Or it could be because he’s driving. He is a little short to reach those pedals still.) She still remembers what he was like when he first came to them, when his first instinct to reply was not with words but to reach for his sword. 

The kid’s come a long way. 

Pity he hasn’t grown in height accordingly. 

Yeah, okay, it still burns that she’s not driving. (She has her L’s and everything!) 

“Have you seen anything on the sensors yet?” Robin asks. 

She shakes her head. “No.” 

He frowns. “How far outside the car do they reach?” 

She grins a little. “O gave me access to her sensor net. I’ve got five blocks either side.” The advantage of accessing Oracle’s net is that she has access to all satellite data _plus_ all the logged alerts tied to those locations. She could get more, really, but ten blocks is the limit of the screen on the dash. B really needs to upgrade that. 

He grunts. “And we’re still on track?” he asks, again. (It’s the fifth time this hour. She’s counted.) 

“Yep.” She’d plugged the coordinates into the car herself. “It’s the latest WESH project.” 

“The one in the Narrows?” 

“Nah. The Otisburg one, you know, the one that just got completed.” It’s also just a few blocks away from her house, so, the address is not really a problem. (Using a satnav at this point is just her backup.) The cranes had been a regular feature out her bedroom window for _months._

“T-t” Damian tsks and falls silent. To be fair, navigating the Batmobile through the narrowed streets does take all his attention. 

She grimaces at the sound of a scrape on the side. At least the kid is driving and not her because B is gonna _notice_ that scratch. 

They really should’ve taken the motorcycles. 

* * *

“Stop the car,” Spoiler shouts into the cabin, slapping the dash for emphasis. 

Robin slams on the brakes. It’s not the first time she’s done this, and he knows now how quickly to respond. (The answer: very.) 

She bolts out of the car as soon as it stops and flips herself over it, dashing towards a building to their west. Or what remains of it. Robin follows, his only hesitation is in taking a moment to activate the Batmobile’s security. (B will _kill_ him if he let the car be stolen.) 

It turns out to be fairly straightforward. 

Moving a few bits of rubble to open up the way to the survivors. Get them out, quick assessment (no injuries, just shaken, will need new housing obviously), and then move them to their neighbors who thankfully still have their house, if not power and water just yet. Go back to the car, mark the location on the log for follow-up. 

He starts driving again. 

* * *

Slap. Stop. 

Rescue someone. 

Log it. Start driving again. 

* * *

Slap. Stop. 

Rescue a family. 

Log it. Start driving again. 

* * *

Slap. Stop. 

Rescue a couple. 

Log it. Start driving again. 

* * *

Slap. Stop. 

Rescue someone. 

Log it. Start driving again. 

* * *

It just goes on and on. 

* * *

When Spoiler slaps the dash again (how many times has it been?), Robin jerks the car to a stop obediently. 

But this time she doesn’t vault her way out of the car, leaping into action without thought. 

She sits. She stares. 

“What is it?” he asks, not quite sure what the problem is. The GPS hasn’t gone off, he hasn’t seen a logged alert come through… 

Spoiler shakily points at the mound of rubble ahead and to their right. “That.” 

He looks. “Yeah?” It’s a big mound, to be sure (just how _big_ was the building originally?), but it’s still _rubble._ A pile of debris. He prays no one was in it originally, because rescuing someone from that mess is going to be _painful._ If anyone survived its collapse, which he doubts. 

“ _That,_ ” she says slowly, “was the Otisburg WESH development.” 

He pales. “Tell me you’re wrong.” But… Grayson was… He’s supposed to be _here…_

She shakes her head. And shakily points to the WESH logo, a corner of which is poking up out of the rubble. Ironically enough, it seems to be the most intact thing in the whole pile. 

He swallows, mouth dry. His brother… was (is?) (please no) in _that…_

Oh. 

_Oh._


	9. Into The Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a day that just keeps _giving._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** I had to think about this prompt. Do I acknowledge it when it goes wrong, or when the effects are known? Hmm… Timing-wise, I think it works better here. It’s certainly more suspenseful, this way. :)  
>  **Prompts:** 15\. Into The Unknown + Science Gone Wrong

The first thing they do is call it in to Oracle. (O takes the news sombrely and quietly informs them that she'll see about sending someone their way.) (They don't expect anyone. The only reason they were able to get here in under 3 hours is that they're _not_ in as high demand as Batman is.) 

The second thing they do is aim the Bat computer's sensors at the rubble pile. The results are… a step above useless. (And that’s being generous.) 

Thick concrete, steel beams, plaster, all mashed together… thermal imaging isn’t penetrating, infrared isn’t reading much better, it’s all just a mess. 

The log of alarms isn’t much better. They’d discovered that they have a general alert out for the local area, but _where_ exactly it came from was anyone’s guess. 

All they have to go on is the slim lead that B passed on from the initial call… that the kidnapper was specific about the WESH development in Otisburg. And they have enough experience with kidnappers to know to follow up on those kinds of leads. And they also have enough experience with kidnappers to know that those kinds of leads sometimes go nowhere. 

The two of them poke at the rubble (debris field, come on, let’s call it what it is) for a while before Spoiler calls it. 

She huffs and straightens her back (tries hard to ignore how it cracks on her). “We’re not getting anywhere like this.” 

“T-t,” Robin tsks predictably and keeps going. 

To be honest, she can understand his frustration. They’ve covered barely five percent in 30 minutes. At this rate… Gah, maths was never her strong suit, but she suspects they’ll be here for _hours._ Ten hours maybe? And that’s if things go _well._ (And this is Gotham, she never expects things to go well, not with night coming on.) 

She rubs at her sweaty forehead and grimaces, knowing from the feel of it that she’s just left a streak of dust and grime on her forehead. Her outfit is no better, sticky and stiff with sweat, dust, plaster, and fluids she doesn’t want to name. This is one time she’ll be glad to hand her clothes over to the Cave’s laundry machines and be done with it. 

Or maybe she’ll burn them. That’s always an option. 

“I’m still gonna call it in!” she calls after him. 

And Robin ignores her. Again. 

Whatever. 

They still need help. 

They _desperately_ need more bodies. There’s too much to cover, and not enough time. Not with the night so close. Not with Dick missing so long already. Or people trapped in here for so long and no way to find them. 

If they’re wrong about this… 

If they’ve wasted time here and Dick is elsewhere (injured, bleeding, _dying_ )... 

If he _is_ here and they step wrong and it comes down around them… Or on some other survivor… 

She rubs her forehead again. 

They need more advanced equipment… or even better, more _bodies_ with better _senses._ Yeah, that’s the idea. They need some _metas._

How she’s gonna swing that past B she has no idea, but she’s gonna try anyway. 

In the end, she doesn’t have to. 

She gets O, not B on the line, and O is such a fan of the idea that she temporarily drops B into a “black spot” on the sensor net. (All the better for it to be a _fait accompli._ ) By the time B is freed from O’s hole in her system, they are already here and working. 

Done and _done._

They, of course, being Superman and Wonder Woman. Clark and Diana. (B just grunts over the comms when he hears it and clicks off. It’s enough of a sign of approval as he ever gives that they all just ignore it and keep going.) (He's still in central Gotham, and they all know hell never make it in time to help out himself.) 

From there, it's all a bit a whirlwind. It's a hell of an advantage to have people that can fly over the rubble and _listen_ at the same time. 

She bodily pulls Robin to the side to watch them from the sidelines, taking a breather and drinking water while they watch the two heroes methodically fly over the rubble. In just a few minutes, the two cover the same amount of ground that they'd covered before they made the call. 

She watches it with a bunch of mixed feelings tied up within her in a knot she’s not quite sure how to parse. (It’s so easy for them it’s sickening.) (It’s such a relief to not be doing it herself.) (They’ll be done at no time at all at this rate.) (How could anyone survive this?) (Is this rubble pile where Dick is? _Please_ let this be where Dick is.) 

By the look on Robin’s face, he’s just as conflicted. 

She side-eyes him and takes a stab at it anyway. “We’ll find him. It won’t be long now.” 

He frowns. “I know we will.” His expression darkens and turns grim. “Unless we’re already too late.” 

“That’s why I called it in. We _need_ their help.” 

He huffs and crosses his arms. “Unlikely. We are Bats. We should be able to do this.” 

She rolls her eyes. Typical Damian, really, covering his (worry, concern, upset) feelings with bluster. It's all she can do to stop herself from ruffling his hair. (Which is to say that she pulls her hand back when it’s just short of touching.) 

“I will admit,” he says eventually, “that they are moving faster than we were.” 

She gives in and ruffles his hair. _Damn but this kid is adorable._

He ducked and shoved her hand away. “Hey! I---” 

And everything crawls to a stop. 

_“Found someone!”_

She darts over, Robin hot on her heels. “Who is it? Who is it?” 

Superman listens intently. “I think… they’re pretty far down, but they’re discussing… Superbowl scores?” He frowns. “I can’t see down to them because _someone’s_ used lead in the paint all over the place in that mess, but I can hear them.” 

She frowns herself. Lead-based paint was _supposed_ to be banned. (It's yet another nail in the coffin for whoever built this thing.) “Can you identify them?” 

“Uh, a man and a woman it sounds like.” He frowns. “Okay, the man is injured, probably critically. The lady… not so much.” 

It’s a survivor, no, _two_ survivors. This is a day that just keeps giving. The question bursts out of her. “Is it Dick?” 

Superman holds up a hand. “Hang on,” he says, gesturing for silence. 

They wait. 

He stills. “Uh… possibly.” He knows that heartbeat anywhere. It’s just… muffled. He can’t be sure. 

He can’t be sure. 

Right. 

She takes a moment to think about their options. As hard as it was to get the Batmobile here, it’ll be harder to get ambulances and crews and support equipment and cranes and… yeah. Besides, they’re vigilantes and superheroes. They’ve been around enough collapsed buildings that they have more than a passing knowledge of combat engineering. (The _Bat v JLA_ Jenga games are _legendary_.) They have Superman’s strength and vision along with Wonder Woman’s lasso. 

They can do this. 

They _have_ to do this. 

The clock is already ticking. 


	10. Tick Tock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tick. Tock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** Otherwise known as the chapter that got away from me. Also, handwavy science and logistics here (all of which drove me _nuts_ ). Finally, both implied and obvious mention of bodily fluids along with a fairly detailed description of wounds, mostly in this chapter, but a little bit in the next. It’s probably no worse than canon, but if this bothers you, please stay safe people. :) (Also, I did not intend for Stephanie to take on such a major speaking role in this. She's kind of barged her way into this and refused to _shut up._ The more you learn, I guess.)  
>  **Prompts:** 5\. Rescue + 10. Trail of Blood & Blood loss + 20. Field medicine + 30. Wound Reveal

Making their way through the rubble pile down to the two survivors they’ve found is not the easiest thing they've ever done.

For the record, it’s not because they don’t know what they’re doing. (They do.) It’s not because they’re trying to rush it. (They aren’t.) It’s also not because they’re limited in what they can bring to the table. (They really aren’t.)

It’s because there’s so much darn _stuff_ to wade through.

For every advance they make, they have to stop and shore up what they’ve already gone through to make sure it won’t fall down around them. Then remove what they pull out. (It's making quite a respectable little pile to the side of their little tunnel.) And then do it all _again_ to make sure there’s room for, say, either Clark or Diana plus one, in case they have to get someone out and to a hospital in a hurry.

They have quite a smooth little system going when something happens that changes everything.

It’s Spoiler that makes the discovery. (Mostly because they’ve been using her and Robin as the advance scouts due to their smaller size, and it’s simply her turn at the front while Damian takes a reluctant breather.) (Which in practice means that Wonder Woman is doing her turn on rubble removal above ground and Damian is playing gofer.)

She isn’t even _sure_ of the discovery, at first. It’s been such a long hard day, full of surreal twists and turns, that this is just one more layer of icing on an already weird cake. But what she puts her hand down on to… well, it has a distinctive feel, and she’s felt it often enough in her career as Spoiler that she’s pretty sure what it is. Not, like, one hundred percent, but you know, pretty sure.

Her stomach turns. _Not good._ Just to make sure, she pulls the light from her utility belt and checks.

Yep. Its blood.

A little dried at the edge, but where she put her hand… definitely still liquid. Forensics is not her strong suit (she’s still learning it, ok??), but this blood is… well, not fresh, but also very much not _old._ Given that it’s protected from wind, light, air movement… uh… at least one to two hours? Maybe more?

Gods, but she wishes she was better at this whole… vigilante thing. All the other Bats make it look so _easy._

She turns her little light to look, and yeah. The blood leads to the direction they’re traveling. So, that’s good to know. At least it confirms they’re on the right track.

Grisly way to do it though.

Grimacing, she wipes her hand on her clothes and keeps going. It’s not the worst thing she’s touched today, nor is it probably going to be the worst thing she’s inflicted on her clothing today either.

It seems like an eternity later that her efforts reap rewards. (She’s encountered more blood puddles in the meantime. She’s done her best not to count them.) (Six. There were six.)

It’s a reward that comes with voices (shouting!) up ahead, muffled a little by the debris between them and her.

They’ve found them!

She grabs a pipe and taps out HELLO in Morse Code. (Finally, those lessons are coming in handy.) One long, three short, tiny pause, three short, one long.

She waits.

Three short… one long… three short.

Dammit. Well, okay, it’s good that they’ve found them, but… dammit. She was (idealistically perhaps) hoping for better news.

There’s the sound of rubble shifting and rustling behind, but she doesn’t dare turn to look. Finally, Clark’s voice comes floating over her shoulder, “Did I just hear right?”

She nods and then reminds herself to be polite. It’s fairly dark down here, and her little light isn’t the best. “Yeah,” she replies, mouth dry from more than the dust they’ve stirred up. “We’ve found them.” She swallows. “They need help.”

He snorts. “Probably. They’ve been trapped here for how many hours now? Of course they do.”

Oh. Well. _Duh._ She feels like kicking herself. _Way to go, Stephanie. Of course they do._ She licks her lips and scoots to the side a little. “Can you see them yet?”

He squints forward. “I… Only dimly. It’s all that stupid paint, I think.” He frowns and shifts to the other side. “Wait, that’s better. I can see the woman a little.”

“Any idea who it is?”

He shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, “never seen her before in my life.”

Right. Gotham local, then.

He frowns again. “She’s… leaning over… the male, I think. It looks like… yeah, she’s applying pressure to a wound, I think. That, or its some crazy version of CPR I’ve never seen before.”

Okaaay. Nothing to inspire panic like a potentially life-or-death situation. “How far?” she asks.

He shrugs. “A couple of meters, maybe less.”

Right. They can do this.

They _have_ to do this.

* * *

She thinks she’ll forever remember the moment they break through the rubble to the hole in which their survivors are trapped.

It’s one of those surreal anti-climactic moments that feel bigger than they are. (She’s wishing for trumpeting angels and a swelling musical backing chorus, really.) (Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but still. A little bit of recognition would be nice.)

Instead, the only recognition she gets is the sound of rubble meeting rubble, and a quiet, “Thank God.”

“Nope, not God, only me, Spoiler.” Come on, that’s comedy _gold._ The opening was right _there._

“Uh, right,” comes the reply. From in front of her. She can see the lady they’ve been working towards, but not what she’s leaning over. Which is probably the male that Superman described earlier. (Is it Dick? _Please_ let that be Dick.) (Or simply someone alive. Alive would be so _good_ right now.)

Right.

“Spoiler, you said, right?” the voice continues. Raspy, female, tired, worn out.

“Yep,” Steph replies, gentler this time. _Play it safe, Steph. They’ve been here a while now._ “And you are?”

“...Angel. Or Angie.”

“Nice to meet you, Angie.” She grins. She might not have gotten a trumpeting angel chorus, but she _did_ get a real live angel -- she’ll take it. “Where are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I can’t help you, Angie, if you’re not straight with me. What am I looking at?”

“I think… mostly cuts and bruises. The cuts on my head and leg were the worst of it.”

“Okay then, we’ll---”

“But don’t worry about me,” Angie continues, “I’m fine. Really. I’m more worried about him.”

She blinks and does her best to hide the adrenaline that starts ramping through her system. “You mean your friend?”

“Yeah, he…” Angie shifts but doesn’t turn to face her. “He was awake and conversing until a few minutes ago. He just kind of… faded out between one word and the next.”

Dammit. In this kind of situation, that sudden unconscious is usually a sign of blood loss. “Is he bleeding?”

“Yeah, a little.”

She grimaces and swears to herself. It probably means there’s more bleeding internally they have to worry about. This means that there’s a big ugly tock clicking, and she doesn’t like the look of it. At all.

“All right, Angie,” she says, gentling her voice into reassuring tones. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to widen the hole we’ve made, and then we’ll make an assessment to see what help we can provide, okay?”

“Oh… Okay.”

From there, they work quickly but methodically. It seems like no time at all before their tunnel is wider, their access point into this little pocket is more generous, and…

Oh.

_Oh._

Stephanie wants so badly to swear. Aloud and in a long stream. (But she can’t. She _can’t._ She’s in costume, a representative of Higher Power, the nearest Bringer Of Peace And Calm, and it really wouldn’t look good if she lost her cool.) She swallows it down instead.

It _is_ Dick. And he’s unconscious… in a pool of blood.

Not good.

She eases herself into the tiny space that Angel and Dick are lying in, for once thankful that her latest growth spurt is taking its time coming. She fits, barely (in a really squished kind of way), but she wouldn’t want to be any taller. “What am I looking at, Angie?” she asks again, trying to keep the urgency from her voice. “Do you know where he is hurt?” It’s vital information at this point. It also helps her test Angie’s cognitive awareness.

She nods slowly. “Broken right wrist, his legs are trapped, there’s a beam on his torso, and I’m… trying to put pressure on the puncture wound in his back. That’s where most of this is from.”

Right.

That… matches what she’s seeing. (She was really just hoping for better news. But wishes and fishes and all that, right?) It’s also far more than she can handle on her own. Thankfully, however, she’s prepared for this.

She gently moves closer to Dick, careful not to disturb the debris around him. ( _Not_ easy. It’s like a house of cards but made out of steel, plaster, and who knows what else.) She does a quick but thorough pat-down and checks for other injuries not already mentioned.

Thankfully, she doesn’t find any. Though she can’t really check his legs thanks to the _junk_ on them, and his back… Yeah. She won’t be forgetting that in a hurry.

There’s a bar, likely concrete rebar, protruding from the concrete at an angle and through Dick’s back. It starts in his upper back, to the left of the spine, thank goodness. And with the angle he’s lying, she can’t see if there’s an exit wound or if it goes all the way through.

Dammit. She’s going to have to check, isn’t she?

She gingerly eases her hand under and reaches round… and yeah. It goes through. It ends just after, thank goodness, but it goes all the way through.

Okay then.

So… They’re going to have to get everything off him _and_ deal with the rebar. She checks her watch and does some mental math. They’re at… three and a half hours after the Shake already, and they’ll need to have Dick freed from the weights on him by the four-hour mark to avoid crush syndrome.

She knows they have to act quickly on Dick. (Thirty minutes is really not all that long.) But… They’re going to have to lift that beam over his torso. And shift all sorts of rubble. And if they move the wrong thing… She really doesn’t want Angie in here as well. Bad enough that _she’ll_ be in here. (Because she's willing to risk herself, it's part of what she signed up for with the whole vigilante gig, but not a civilian. Never a civilian.)

And really, if she can get Angie out, she might be able to get Superman in here to do the heavy lifting for her. Because at the moment, there’s no room for anyone else in here. (Actually, she doesn’t really fit herself. But she’s determined and stubborn enough that she’s making it work.)

So. Change of plans, then. Angie first. Then Dick. She squeezes herself further in and to the side, to clear the way. And then puts her hands over Angie's. "Let me take over for you."

"But---"

"I'll take over here, and then I want you to follow the tunnel out of here. My friends are waiting for you, they'll get you to the hospital. Can you do that?" Angie won't have to crawl for long, after all. Superman is waiting just on the other side, ready and waiting to help. Oracle’s already notified the hospitals to be on standby for, well, unorthodox deliveries of patients.

It'll be the shortest trip to the hospital in Gotham's history.

In the end, the swap over is quick and painless. And then the grip, the pressure, is all that she can focus on while she distantly hears Angie crawl away. And then there’s a few muttered words and the _swoosh_ of rushing air as Superman does his thing.

She waits, eyes only on her hands and her grip. Maybe it’s because her hands are smaller, she's younger and can't grip as hard, but she can already feel the blood oozing between her fingers.

She waits. (It feels, kneeling here, like an eternity in each moment.)

And waits.

Finally, she hears the swoosh once more of Superman returning and the rubble shifting as he climbs back into the tunnel, and then carefully eases himself into the little hole they’ve made. His big body fits, but only just, and she’s glad all over again that she made Angie go.

He takes in the situation at a glance. “What do you need tackling first?”

She bites her lip. Her first aid is, well, rudimentary at best, but she knows the timing on this is critical. She’d feel a lot better if they were able to run an IV line, but that’s the sacrifice they made of going at this alone. On the other hand, if they do this right, they’ll be able to get Dick to a hospital literally within moments of getting him free, so… It’s just doing it that’s the problem. (The logistics of this are giving her a headache.) “If we shift what’s on top of him, we’ll have seconds, maybe less, to get him to a hospital. I’m just afraid we’ll need to do that first to get him off the thing in his back.”

“Right. Let me think for a bit.” He's silent for a while as he looks, his eyes taking on an eerie blue sheen.

“OK," he says finally, "here's what I think we should do…”

* * *

What follows is both chaotic and simple.

It’s simple, in the sense that all they really have to do is free Dick. It’s also chaotic because this one simple thing requires lots of little steps, all done at exactly the right time done in precisely the right way with very precise timing… and they keep _getting in each other’s way._ (There’s really not the room down here for three people, for two rescuers and the rescuee, but there’s also no way to do it with one rescuer.)

“Ready?”

“Hang on, I… Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Right. On three.”

“Yeah.”

“One. Two… _Three._ ”

With that, Superman pulls the rebar back through. (It sounds easier than it does.) (Just thinking it ignores all the multitude of steps they had to go through just to get there.) (And… less painful.)

Pulling it back out is enough to wake Dick up with a gasp, which they expected (and hoped for). It’s why Clark already has his hand on Dick’s chest to prevent him from moving around and disturbing what is actually a rather delicate procedure. “Easy, D,” he says, voice gentle even as he firmly pulls, “just… hold your breath for a moment.”

Dick bites his lip and nods silently, eyes clenched shut, his left hand coming up to grasp firmly at Clark’s arm.

The moment Dick's free, Spoiler dives in with trauma dressings retrieved from her belt. She nods a quiet thanks at Clark as he carefully holds Dick up for her, just enough to ease her hand underneath and affix the dressings. She’s already run out of the self-adhering ones, so she whispers a soft apology as she holds the dressings in place and bandages Dick’s chest (using strips torn off her cape, because yeah, she's run out of bandages too) to hold them in place.

Then she whips off the rest of her cape and lays it on the ground -- anything to protect those dressings from absorbing the blood pooled on the rubble. (Besides, it’s not the worst thing her cape’s touched today.)

It's probably not the best solution, but it's the best they can do.

Clark lets go and Dick lets out an explosive breath as he gently lies back, face screwed tight in pain. “Let’s not… do that again,” he gasps out.

“Sorry, D,” she says. “That part’s over now.”

Her (adopted) big brother’s too clever by half because he grasps immediately what she doesn’t say. Probably because he’s been here before, but usually from the other side of the mask. “Oh. G-d. W… What’s left.”

She bites her lip. “We gotta get you out from under this beam and the rubble, and do it _fast_ , and then Superman here is going to take you on a very special, very quick, trip to the nearest hospital.”

He coughs and winces. “Sounds fun.”

Yeah. Maybe not so much. She forces out a cheerful smile for her (adopted) big brother. “Just hang in there for me, D, and we’ll have in the hospital in a few moments.” She fusses with the cape strips and watches Superman get himself ready for the next part. “It’ll probably be the Mercy since it’s closest.” That is, Gotham Mercy General Hospital, otherwise known as West Mercy Hospital, or simply just the Mercy to the locals.

Dick nods slowly and winces again. “So… watcha doin’?”

She flashes a grin, well aware that this question is part-distraction, part-help-to-stay-the-hell-awake. “Well… Big Blue here is double-checking the structuralnessness--- don’t laugh, that’s _totally_ a word -- of this beam here. Don’t want this little cave you’ve made for yourself here to come crashing down on you.” Then she frowns because she so _totally_ did not miss that wince there. “D, tell me straight. How’s your neck when you move it?”

“...Sore.” Which in their family actually means excruciating or something.

Right. That’s gonna be a Thing. The only thing she really has for that… is her cape. Which she’s already kneeling on, which means it’s contaminated (more than it already was) with dust, debris, bodily fluids, and who knows what else. And it’d make a soft collar, not a rigid one. “Okay then,” she says with a bit of forced cheer, as if he just hasn’t upended her plans. “Anything else we should know about?”

“I can… feel my legs… still?”

Well. That’s good news. “In a good way or a bad way?”

He’s silent for a while. “Uh… both.”

Ok then, probably not so good news. Good, that he can feel his legs, but bad that there’s pain there. She was hoping they’d dodged that particular bullet. (Then again, they’re Waynes and vigilantes. She should know better than to hope for luck to be on their side.) (What’s B always telling her again? _‘Hope for the best, and plan for the worst.’_ Or simpler still, ‘trust but verify.’)

She could send Damian for something… but that thirty-minute window (four-hour deadline) is closing hard and _fast._

So. Improvisation time.

Thinking quickly, she eases her hands under Dick's neck to support it, spreading her hands out to cover his shoulders too, and _lifts._ It's not the most glamorous thing she's ever done, but she manages.

Besides, she doesn't have to lift that high. Just enough to clear the cape, and get her knees under his shoulders.

She ends up sitting criss-cross with his neck resting on her crossed ankles and head in her lap. It frees up her hands to retrieve the cape, fold it into a roll, and wrap it around his neck.

Again, not the best option, but it will hold until they get him to hospital. Which shouldn’t be too far away.

And… she waits.

She wasn't expecting to be ready before Superman, but he had the bigger job, of enlarging their little space once again. She'd just needed to get Dick ready.

Finally, she sees the signal and clears her throat. "Dick, you with us?"

". . . Yeah?"

She frowns a little but quickly forces her expression to clear. She doesn't like the weakness she can hear but knows she can't show it. She has to be the Brave Rescuer for just a bit longer. "Here's what's going to happen. Superman here is going to use his speed to clear the rubble from your legs and then lift the beam, and I'll pull you clear. You don't have to do anything, just lay there and let us do the work, okay?"

There's a long moment of silence, where she's not sure if he's heard her, if she needs to simplify, or…

Then he gives her an aborted nod and winces. "Okay..."

Superman and her exchange a look. They're gonna have to make this quick.

"Okay, then," she agrees, forcing herself to be just as cheerful as ever. (She can worry later.) "On three."

"One."

"Two."

" _Three!_ "

* * *

He swipes, shifts position, then _lifts._

She pulls.

Dick gasps and falls achingly silent.

She swears and pulls.

He holds.

And holds.

And holds---

\---until he can drop it with a thud.

Then he swoops in, scooping up the silent body and _zooming_ out.

* * *

She clambers out of the hole in the ground and that’s where her energy runs out.

She sits quietly on the rubble, telling herself she's taking a moment to pull herself back together. (She's not crying, she's _not_.) She’s just trying to move her frame of reference from Brave Rescuer to Courageous Spoiler. (Or more accurately, to Worried Sibling. Whatever works.)

It takes a while.

Long enough that Superman returns (with a gust of wind, the showoff) and approaches, along with Wonder Woman.

Seriously. Superman and Wonder Woman, breathing the same air she is. If it was any other night, she’d be fangirling so hard right now. As it is, it’s all she can do to blink tiredly at them.

Superman hands over her cape and puts his hand on her shoulder, and it’s like his hand is giving her warmth and strength. “You did good, young Spoiler,” he tells her, voice kind.

She mechanically puts her tattered cape back on, a part of her surprised to get it back. (She never expected to.) (She also thinks she may burn her costume after all. She is so very _done_ with this night.) She brushes her eyes with her arm, surprised and mortified to find out that yeah, she really was crying. “Thanks.”

“No, really,” Diana insists. “Both you and Robin outperformed yourself tonight.”

Robin. Right. How could she forget?

Dammit. In all the chaos she kinda forgot that she was supposed to be looking after the little tyke. She looks around and finds him, standing to the side and looking all sorts of disconcerted. She doesn’t blame him. It’s been a weird night.

And she can say night now, can’t she? It’s just past 9 pm, and at this time of the year, so close to Halloween, the dusk starts early and doesn’t last long. Not even the city’s lights make much of a dent past 8 pm at night. Out here in the ‘burb’s, which Otisburg tends to be, it’s darker -- especially after a Shake, where electricity is more a privilege than a right.

She rubs her face tiredly and tries to gather herself. Her thoughts are wandering. Like, major league wandering. (She probably needs a few hours of sleep, but she really doubts she’ll get it. It’s all hands on deck after a Shake, and they’re only a few hours in yet.) (But she’s just put herself through the wringer, and it’s for her _brother._ Her _brother_.) (She wants to leave everything, drop everything and go check on him, but she doesn’t dare ask. She’s not sure she has the words anymore.)

She doesn’t even know if it was all worth it.

She doesn’t _know._

Clark and Diana exchange a long look.

“Go,” says Clark. “We’ve got this.”

“But---”

“ _Go._ We can handle the S&R for the rest of the night. Go be with your family.”

It’s the second time today that she’s been told to _go._ This time by a _superhero_ no less.

She’s not stupid. She knows how to listen, both to what’s said and not said.

She goes, dragging Robin behind her. (Although to be fair, the going thing would be easier if they’d taken the Batcycles instead of the Batmobile.)


	11. Every Breath (He Takes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He breathes in. Holds. And let's go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** Uh, medwhump. That’s a thing, yes? :D It's not detailed, but medical procedures _are_ implied here.  
>  **Prompts:** 9\. Alt 7. Found family + 22. Drugged + 29. Emergency room + 29. Intubation

By the time Bruce can peel himself away from Gotham and make it to the Mercy, most of the night has elapsed. It’s probably far more honest to call it dawn than night, and he’s got a long day ahead at the boardroom rallying WE around Gotham, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Because while he may be Batman, he is also a Wayne. This comes first. (It will _always_ come first.) 

His kids have been doing their best to keep him updated during the night, which he appreciates more than he has words to say, but sometimes… sometimes he just _needs_ to be here. (And being the adult on record, he can get further than his kids can.) (He has a stream of increasingly frustrated and stressed out texts from an adopted daughter to prove it.) 

Walking into the ED in the Mercy, however, is nothing less than an assault on his already tired senses. It’s nothing short of chaotic, an already stressed emergency room shooting past overloaded and heading straight for the moon. (With big rockets attached.) 

He grimaces and makes a note to himself to donate more money to Gotham’s health system. (Again.) (It can’t hurt.) (At this point, any little bit helps.) 

Making his way through the crowd feels like wading through a tidal wave, but with more crying and angst. He can only feel thankful that in his rush to get here, he thought ahead enough to dress down. He’d hate to be recognized in this madhouse. 

Finally, he makes it to the nurses’ desk, who looks just as swamped as he feels. She musters up a smile for him that looks more like a grimace. “Triage or admin?” 

“Admin, please.” 

He’s fairly sure he didn’t imagine the look of exhausted relief at having one less patient. “What can I do for you?” 

“I’m family for Dick Grayson. He was brought in earlier.” 

She types the name in, reaches for a pen, and promptly drops it. (Probably when she reads who the next of kin is. At least, he hopes it's that and not Dick's injuries.) ( _Please_ don't let his son be injured too bad. He's come too far, sacrificed too much this night, to face that now.) 

"And you are?" 

He lowers his voice. "Bruce Wayne." He _really_ does _not_ want the crowd around to hear who he is. He clears his throat and says normally, "I should be down as next of kin." 

She nods, flustered, but gamely recovers. What he’s _not_ imagining is the caution that steals over her face. “Can you tell me something identifying about him, sir?” 

“Yeah,” he nods and lowers his voice again. “I'm told he was, uh, brought in by Superman. I can tell you his height, weight, and all that if it helps.” 

She clears her throat and picks up her pen again, and a post-it note to go with it. "No worries, that'll be fine, sir. Just bear with me and I'll get you his room information." 

* * *

He finds a doctor on the way, and it actually manages to be the one taking care of his son. (How he manages to do that, he’ll never know.) (It’s timing mostly. He just happened to be approaching Dick’s room as the doctor was walking out.) 

This day just keeps getting better. 

The doctor, of course, recognizes him straight away. “Ah, Mr. Wayne, you’re here for Mr. Grayson, correct?” 

He nods and just goes with it. “What can you tell me?” 

“Easy things first. The crush injuries, not as minor as what we were expecting, _thank god._ If he has trouble walking at first, try a chair, but he should be fine to graduate to moon boots and canes. Total recovery there is about four to six weeks, which is about when the plaster on the arm should come off too.” 

He nods. Four to six weeks. Painful but doable. 

“The last thing is the puncture wound. We gave him a tetanus shot and took him straight into reconstructive surgery on the damaged muscle. He’s probably looking at about four to six weeks recovery there too.” 

Bruce nods more firmly. This is ground that he is (sadly) familiar with. “So… four to six weeks total.” Knowing Dick, he’ll aim for three. 

The doctor sighs. “Yeah, but if you’re going to see him, which I imagine you are, I’ll give you fair warning. He’s intubated, so he’s sedated at the moment.” 

Part of him tenses. “Sedation… Not a coma…” 

“No. It looks like his torso, and his lungs by extension, were being compressed while he was trapped. Add to that the location of the puncture wound and the trauma of the surgery, and we’re giving them a break for a while. Should only be a day or so. I don’t want to go any longer, because he’s also presented with signs of a concussion so we’re watching that like a hawk.” 

“So… I _can_ go see him? Family too?” 

He nods. “Sure. We put him in a private room, near the nurses’ desk. I’ll let them know, and you should be able to go in in shifts.” He checks his watch and winces. “Sorry, Mr. Wayne, but that’s all the time I have. I was on my break, and now I’m not, so I gotta run.” 

He frowns. “I thought you had mandated longer breaks.” He should know. He remembers helping to push that legislation through. 

“Yeah, but on Shake night? My break was minus ten minutes. Look, I’d love to stay and explain more, but I _really_ gotta run.” 

Bruce’s frown deepens (Health. Donation. Immediately.) but he lets the doctor go. He has more immediate concerns. 

* * *

In contrast to the ED, Dick’s room is… ok, so not peaceful, but it _is_ quieter. (Anything would be quieter.) 

That said, it’s not exactly silent. His son is hooked up to all sorts of machines that beep and hiss and blink and make all sorts of noisy output. It’s only his years as Batman (and, let’s be honest, his years of returning from a night out in a less-than-stellar condition) that help him make sense of it. 

There’s tubing, IVs, pillows to prop and hold, bandages… It just keeps going. (And it also dwarfs his son. He feels like he can hardly see him underneath all the paraphernalia.) 

What really throws him is the fact that his son is intubated and in a collar. Yes, the doctor warned him but somehow… he _still_ did not expect that. (Obviously, the machine in his skull was noping out of that part of the conversation.) He’d thought, from the report he’d received, that he’d been breathing fine when he’d been rescued. Alert, a bit low on fluids admittedly, but… he’d been fine. 

He’d been _fine._

He blindly takes the chair next to the bed, eyes fixed on the bed. 

Then his eyes latch on to a hand, poking out from under the covers. (Not the one in the cast.) (One of the nurses picked dark-blue fiberglass for the cast -- Dick’s gonna find that _hilarious_ when he wakes up.) The skin is bruised, battered… but warm. _Alive._ Gently, he scoops it up and holds it (living, precious, _alive_ ) to his cheek. 

He sits and listens to the machines, holding on to his son’s hand, and breathes. 

He breathes in. Holds. And let’s go. 

* * *

Stephanie slumps in the chair for visitors. 

One part of her is not quite sure why they let her in here (she's still adjusting to Waynes' claiming family over her okay?) while the larger part of her is saying she's _earned_ it. Especially after the last 24 hours. 

"I hope you get better, D. I'm pretty sure I’m gonna get bragging rights if you do. It’s not often I get to help _you_ out of a jam." 

She thinks about it for a moment. "Actually, I'm fairly sure you'll get anything you want for a while. You scared us, okay? Just come back to us." 

* * *

Damian sits stiffly in the chair, back straight, feet hanging, but knees together _just so._

He sits. 

He waits. 

The machines never change. 

His brother inhales, holds, and let’s go. And repeats. 

He leaves his hand very carefully near his brother’s, but there’s no answering twitch. 

* * *

Tim eases himself into the room when it's his turn and stops just inside the door. 

He means to go further, he really does, it's just… he really hates his brain sometimes. He only needs one look at Dick, and the machine in his head starts flashing up at him his memories of every time he was in a hospital room staring at someone on life support. 

It’s a list that’s entirely too long for someone his age. 

What’s even worse is that he can’t pull out his phone to distract himself. (Well, he can, it’s on and all that, but the internet won’t work this deep in the hospital, so what’s the point?) 

All that he feels capable of doing is sitting on the floor by the door and staring for the length of his turn. 

Which is what he does, breathing in tune with the ventilator. 

* * *

Alfred sits quietly in the chair. 

For a long moment, the room is still and quiet (apart from the beeping machines) as he dwells in thought about what to say. 

He sighs quietly to himself and rummages through the small bag by his side. He pulls out a small hardbound book from his bag and settles back in his chair. “Well, Master Dick, once again you’ve proved yourself a master at getting this family together. I daresay the only member missing from our little tribe is Master Jason, and that’s only because he’s… off with his friends at the moment.” (He’s been at this game too long to mention identities or the fact that said friends are actually _off-world_.) (He has tried to get a message out, using the various methods left to him, he doesn't know if it's gotten through.) (He doesn't _know,_ so all he can do is pray for the young master’s swift return.) 

“Though, I do hope that will change in a hurry once he hears, for all that young man’s protestations to the contrary. I just wish…” He sighs again and rubs his eyes. “I just wish it wasn’t at the expense of you all the time, young man. Or perhaps I’m getting too old for hospital rooms.” He imagines he hears a pause in the steady breathing at that comment, but he knows all too well that that's only his imagination. (Because he's been here before.) (He knows they're in for a long wait.) 

He snorts to himself in amusement at the thought and carefully opens the book to his marked page. “No matter, young man. Please don’t mind an old man his musings. Now, where were we…” 

* * *

Stephanie settles herself in the chair again. 

She shifts a little and eventually pulls out her math homework, but doesn’t touch it. Taps her mechanical pencil against it, but stares into space instead. 

“Ya know, D,” she says finally, “I know you told me the whole thing about B being the face of WE and all that. But I never quite _got it_ before today.” She shakes her head. “He did an on-the-fly press thing. Two of them, actually. One to get Gothamites donating to their local charity centers, and the other...” She idly taps her mechanical pencil again. “He’s talking of rebuilding Gotham _by hand_ if he has to, D. Or taking the building contractors in Gotham to court. Whatever comes first.” 

She snorts to herself. “Hells, I have a suspicion I know which building he wants to start with. Though I get the feeling he probably wants to salt and burn it first.” 

* * *

Duke settles uneasily in the chair and slings his yellow backpack to the floor. 

He’s not entirely sure _why_ he’s here, but he’s been reliably informed that here is where he needs to be, so here is where he is. 

He totally blames Alfred. He’s still not sure how everyone seems to ignore what Alfred says. 

And since Alfred has also been on his back about keeping his grades up… he figures this is as good a place as any to start tackling his mountain of homework. Never know when school will reopen after all. And he likes working through his problems aloud sometimes, and his home environment… isn’t always conducive to it. 

Besides, he has something of a captive audience right now, doesn’t he? 

He sighs again to himself, pulls out his algebra homework, and begins reading aloud. 

* * *

It's Bruce's shift again. 

He slumps in the chair, all his earlier drive and adrenaline are gone. He’s been on the go for something approaching thirty-six hours and he is _spent._ His get up and go got up went hours ago. He’s not operating on fumes, because that would be kind to fumes. 

He’s _empty._

And it bites at him. He’s done 36-hour shifts (and longer) before. There’s been plenty of times that he’s had to do it, such as when Joker’s been loose, he’s been off-world, there’s been some crisis or other… He’s always been able to push through. 

But not today. 

He’s reached the end of his energy for today. He’s also reached the end of his tolerance limits for what today can throw at him. 

He is _done._

He picks up the uncasted hand once more and closes his eyes. 

This… this is good. 

… 

. . . 

_Beep. BEEP._

\---His eyes fly open and he shoots to his feet. 

He was wrong. He does have some adrenaline left. 

He rakes his eyes over the machines, searching for the one sending off the alarm. The displays are different from the ones in the Cave (not as advanced), and it takes him longer than he likes. Is it the O2 alarm? The ventilator? 

But that’s all he can make out because then the door’s flying open, nurses and doctors are flying in, and before he knows it or can say anything, he’s outside in the hallway. 

Yep. Definitely too tired for this. 

He finds a place to lean (not to sit, because the way he feels, now that he's coming down from that adrenal surge, if he sits he might fall asleep again) and waits. Spends time clenching and unclenching his fists to keep himself focused. 

It doesn’t take too long. Not really. (It just _feels_ that way.) His patience is rewarded when the nurses and doctors emerge from his son’s room, discarding the PPE as they disperse. 

They’re smiling. Relieved. Chatting. 

He relaxes against the wall even as he catches the eye of one of the doctors. 

“Ah, Mr. Wayne.” 

He nods in greeting. 

“Good news. Your son’s lungs have recovered enough that we’ve been able to extubate him. He’s now breathing on his own. He’ll have a mask for a few hours, but his lungs should be fine.” 

He nods again. “He’ll be fine,” he echoes. 

“Yes, sir. Give him a few weeks, a bit of rehab most likely, and your son will be back to normal.” 

Normal. _Hah!_

What a quaint concept. 


	12. Bonus Time I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wakes. (Repeatedly.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** I promised fluff to round this off, did I not? (Then again, this is a whumptober prompt fill. Have a fluffy!whump.) :D  
>  **Prompts:** 13\. O2 mask + 23. Exhaustion

He drifts in and out for a while. 

Mostly out. 

There are dim fleeting memories of nurses talking to him, asking him his name. Why they want his name he doesn't know (doesn't care), can't tell them anyway, not with his tongue stuck in his mouth. He's so _parched._ He tries to open his mouth to tell them and abruptly runs out of air anyway. 

He has a vague sense of panic (not him but others) before there's a coolness in his veins and the darkness is pulling him under. 

He thinks he wakes briefly a few times, but he’s not sure. ( _Good_ drugs.) He also thinks maybe there’s something down his throat, helping with the air situation, but doesn’t really care enough about it to wake further. 

There’s someone holding his hand. It’s nice. He thinks for a moment about squeezing back, but he can’t hold himself together any longer, and let’s go. 

Things get blurry for a while, and he catches snatches of conversations. 

“...to die, to sleep…” 

“...salt and burn…” 

“...ex is why, but that doesn’t make _sense_ …” 

He agrees. It really doesn’t make sense. But exhaustion and drugs pull him under again before he can puzzle out what he hears. 

He wakes again to beeping, and someone holding his hand. 

It’s nice. 

The beeping not so much. It’s annoying. He inhales to let people know what he thinks about it and--- 

\---He chokes. There’s something in his throat. 

There’s something in his _throat._

He panics. 

Voices. Hands. None of them friendly. Beeping. His throat. His--- 

“Can you cough?” 

\---throat. Voices. Beeping. Hands. Pain. His _throat. Can’t breathe!_

“Cough!” 

Voice. Loud, firm, demanding. 

He coughs. 

And wishes he hadn’t. His back lights up in pain and fiery torment that makes him groan and cough, which makes the pain _worse,_ which makes him cough and groan… It’s a never-ending cycle that just keeps going and _going_ … until there’s blessed coolness sliding in his veins once again and he can relax. 

He slumps back into the bed, winded. This staying awake business is hard work. 

There's also a mask on his face but he ignores it. It's better than something down his _throat._

"Mr. Grayson, you with us?" 

He nods or goes to. There’s a cervical collar in the way. " _. . . yeah._ " Wow, is that him, his voice sounds so… shattered. Like the rest of him. Aches and pains start dialing in from all over his body, if distantly, and he knows straight away that it's not gonna be enough to keep him awake. 

"Breathe deep for me." 

He does, tentatively at first, and then with more confidence when it doesn't hurt. 

It doesn't hurt. 

He keeps breathing. It's a novel enough experience that it's something to focus on. 

He tries to hold on after that, to stay awake, he really does, but the man's voice is droning and he's so _tired._ It's not long before exhaustion pulls him under once more. 

How long he's under he's not sure. It seems like he closed his eyes for only a moment, but he knows it must be longer. For one thing, it's night, and he closed his eyes to afternoon light. (He's not complaining. The light still hurts his eyes.) 

It's also the first time he's felt aware enough to wonder at the state of his body. 

He lets his hand drift, poking at what he can feel. Chest bandages, mostly around his shoulders. Hard cervical collar. O2 mask. Right arm in plaster. His legs are… not the best, but he can’t reach that far. There’s pain too, and he’s had worse (and very recently), but it’s enough that it’s making him wince and breathe shallowly. 

It’s also enough that he fumbles for the call button and presses it. 

A nurse pokes her head around the corner, sees he’s awake, and comes into the room. She’s smiling a little as she comes over to check his vitals. “How you feeling?” she murmurs. 

“Thirsty.” (Honestly, it feels like he’s been thirty for _ages._ ) “Sore.” He’s pleased to discover he sounds a bit more like himself now. Bit raspy and parched, but water would help there. 

“On a scale of one to ten?” 

“…Six.” Which for normal people without his pain threshold is probably an eight, but whatever. 

The nurse’s eyebrows twitch, which tells him that yeah, his pain scale is not normal. (But it’s _his_ pain threshold, and it's normal to him.) But she pours water into a glass and shifts his o2 mask long enough so he can sip from the glass she holds for him, so big bonus points for that. Then she does something to his IV that makes the pain fade back into the mist. It’s enough to make him slump back on the bed, to make him realize how tense the pain was making him after he relaxes. 

A short while after that the doctor shows up. (Stupidly cheerful at oh-dark-hundred.) The doctor, thankfully, doesn’t turn the ceiling lights on, just uses the light over the bed. (It’s still too much for his eyes and head, but he can manage as long as he _doesn’t look._ ) 

Then the doctor gets him to roll so he can lift the bandages and look at the stitches in his back. (All of a sudden he’s thankful once more for the collar. His neck is _not_ happy with him.) 

He clears his throat and tries his voice again. “What’s the damage, doc?” Back to normal, good. 

“Let’s just say you were lucky, Mr. Grayson. A little bit deeper or steeper, and we might not be having this conversation. As it is, you’re probably looking at four to six weeks recovery from the surgery to reconstruct what was damaged.” The doctor readjusts the bandages and pats his back. “Now roll back, if you please.” 

Four to six weeks. That’s… not the greatest news, but it’s manageable. (He’s totally gonna do it in three.) He carefully rolls back onto his back, taking a bit more care this time of his neck and head. “And the collar?” 

“Only a day or so more, I imagine. Just to get you through the acute stage of your concussion.” The doctor readjusts the blankets that had pooled around his waist. 

There’s more to the conversation, but he loses the thread of it after that, finally pulled down by the painkillers and the ever-present exhaustion. 

He surfaces when it’s daytime (again), though someone has thankfully pulled the blinds in his room closed. The O2 mask is gone, replaced by a cannula. He grimaces mentally. He hates the cannula. They always dry out his nostrils. But he still has the collar, so there’s that too. 

The other change in his room is that now he has company. And not one that he expects, given that it is Jason Todd sitting there. Last he heard, his next youngest brother was off-world. 

He blinks at him. “When did you get here?” Not that he doesn’t appreciate it, because he _really_ does, but… he thought Jay’s mission was gonna last weeks yet. 

Jason shrugs artlessly. “Soon as I heard. Seriously, you couldn’t let a Shake go by without getting in on a little drama?” 

“Apparently not,” he says faintly.” (And he wonders if he’s coherent enough yet for this conversation?) (Then again, if this goes down the tubes, he’s totally blaming the painkillers.) And then he frowns. “What time is it? What _day_ is it?” 

“Thursday. Ten-thirty.” He grins at him, knowing what question is really being asked. “The Shake happened at precisely 5:32 on Tuesday afternoon. You were brought in about 9:15 that night.” 

One and a half days. He’s lost one and a half _days._ And he’s going to lose _at least_ three more weeks. Yay. 

And Jason must see the signs of the impending mood because that’s when Jason smirks at him. “We’re gonna hafta start a club. The Buried Robins club, whaddya think?” 

He gags. “Jay, that’s bad taste.” But it does the job of diverting his thoughts. “B would have a _fit._ ” 

The smirk widens into a sharklike grin. “Have I ever cared about that?” 

“Fair point.” He shifts carefully on the bed, because he strongly suspects there are tubes going into him in all sorts of fun places. “Did your, uh, _thing_ go that badly?” 

“Nah. I just like stirring the pot, that’s all. Speaking of, B’s tribe of orphans is already circling, wanting to come in.” He stands and stretches. “Now that you’re awake, I’ll let them in. But not for long, because you need your rest.” 

He smiles, feeling unaccountably fond. (Which he _will_ blame on painkillers, thanks very much.) “Thanks, LittleWing.” Although, to be honest, he can’t argue. He just lost one and a half _days_ to concussion, exhaustion, painkillers, as well as the trauma of surgery. He also knows he’d been worn out even before this happened, doing his best to recover from a bout of the flu. His reserves were low, and right now he’s feeling it. 

And, to be honest, it _is_ good to see the rest of the family. They come and go in ones and twos (with Jay keeping watch from the corner), the nurses obviously not wanting to stress him out. There are careful hugs from the girls and fist bumps from the boys. Or in Damian’s case, the kid kinda glomps him and _then_ stiffly informs him he needs to learn to dodge better. (The obvious implication is that that's what he’ll be training on when he’s better. Yay.) 

God, but he loves his family. 

He tells them all he’s fine, still breathing, if a little sore and sorry for himself, and would they _please_ go back to school or whatever? He’s pretty sure he’s gonna spend the rest of the day sleeping, especially if yesterday was any indication, and he’d love to do that without worrying about where his siblings are. 

Jay takes that as the appropriate note to start shooing people out, and promises on the way to be back later that afternoon. (Not tonight. None of them make promises about visiting tonight, and he doesn’t expect it. They’ll all be busy after dark.) (Except him, obviously.) 

And he does sleep, as he expected. 

He wakes again when a nurse comes in with a lunch tray. There’s actual _food_ on it, which lifts his spirits like nothing else. Of course, eating it, even propped up, proves to be something of an adventure with the collar on, but he manages at least half the plate before he gives up and pushes it away. (Also, he’s still nauseous. This concussion is still kicking his ass.) (At least he seems to be past the dizzy and disorientated stages. Man, that part was _brutal._ ) 

He’s done the whole post-concussion recovery thing often enough that he knows not to tempt himself with the TV this early into his recovery, even though he feels marginally more alert and awake now that he’s got food in his belly. (Although, trying to do the math on how long it’s been since the last time he ate is beyond his poor brain right now. Too much thinking. Too much _math._ ) 

Instead, he stares at the wall and tries very hard to think of as little as possible. 

It’s not that surprising that he falls asleep pretty quickly. 

He wakes up to a sharp rap on the door and the doctor from this morning coming in. (Which surprises him. Normally doctors only visit once every 24 hours or so.) 

“How are we feeling now? Any better than this morning?” 

Surprisingly, the answer is yes. All this sleep must be doing him good. “I think so.” 

“Good, good,” the doctor nods. “While you’re awake,” he grins at him, “I wanted to run a quick neuro check.” He runs through the standard president, location, time, location, all that sort of thing. (It makes him so very grateful he had that visit from Jason earlier.) 

“Right,” he continues. Now that’s out of the way, I can talk to you about getting that collar off. Any episodes of dizziness in the last twenty-four hours?” 

“No.” Though truthfully, he’s been asleep for most of them. 

“Right then, lean back for a moment and let me feel your neck, and I’ll see what we’re looking at.” The doctor leaves the bed elevated and props a hip on the side of the bed. He carefully unwraps the collar from around his neck and then feels around to the back. “Any pain as I do this?” 

“I… no.” At least, he’s fairly sure he’s not. Sometimes his high pain threshold messes with him like that. 

“Okay then.” He takes his hands away and taps his chin in thought. “Can you try rotating your neck for me? Just a sideways rotation in each direction, no more than about forty-five degrees each way.” 

His neck is… stiff, and sore, but nothing like what it was when he was trapped. The movement also doesn’t trigger off one of the blinding headaches, which he is more than grateful for. 

The doctor grins at him, once again absurdly cheerful. “Well, Mr. Grayson, looks like you’ve dodged another bullet. We can leave that collar off for now, though I want to press that call button _hard_ if your neck pain comes back, or if you get severe tingling in your extremities. Also, just be careful with your neck movements in general for the next few days, okay?” 

It’s an easy matter to agree ( _without_ nodding, thank you). 

And then he’s alone in the room, free of one more confining device. 

Well, okay, he has tubes in all sorts of fun and not so fun places, the cannula, monitoring devices, the cast, bandages, stitches, his legs aren’t happy with him… but it’s another step towards freedom. 

_Freedom._ He can see it from here. 


	13. Bonus Time II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snapshot of life back at the Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** I can’t resist a little end-note to round out the month. (Also, I figured thirteen chapters was a rather appropriate number for October.) :)  
>  **Final note:** Also, by my count, I finished on _40 prompts._ Nailed it!  
>  **Prompt:** 29\. Reluctant Bed rest + 21. Alt3: Comfort

“Do we _have_ to?” He’s not whining. He’s _not._

Alfred looks at him. Looks at his legs. Looks back. “Not unless you feel like navigating the stairs in your boots and a cane.” 

Uh… yeah. No. He tried that yesterday. And that’s why they’re having this discussion. (Spoiler: it didn’t go well. At all.) 

“It’s either the chair or you have your meals in bed.” 

Right. 

He sighs. It’s not a fair choice, but he knew by coming back to the Manor he’d be facing things like this. (Except it seems like it’s _all_ things like this.) 

Thing is, he’s got all the respect in the world for people that sit in wheelchairs. Especially people that are _forced_ to, every day of their lives. The very thought of not being able to move like that… it sends shudders down his spine just thinking about it. It’s his very worst nightmare brought to life. 

He just can’t be one of them. 

Not after this last Shake. Not after escaping the WESH building. 

All credit to disabled people for managing to live in those things, but right now, he can’t even stand the thought of being trapped. Of not being able to _move_. (Yeah, that’s some heavy PTSD there forming, he knows, but he’s _dealing with it_ , okay? Move on.) 

Yeah, it means he’ll be stuck in his bedroom for a while, but he also knows he’s still mobile enough to get the attached bathroom on his own. (He just can’t do stairs.) (At all.) It takes a bit of doing, like strapping on those dratted moon boots and grabbing a cane, but _he can do it._ By. Himself. Thanks. 

He’s not _trapped._

Having meals in bed (and thus losing access to the dining room) is a small price to pay for that small measure of freedom. 

He shakes his head very firmly at Alfred. “No chair.” 

Alfred twitches an eyebrow at him. “Very well, young man. Any requests for dinner?” 

He shakes his head again. His appetite hasn’t really recovered, much to Alfred dismay, so it doesn’t really bother him. “Not really.” 

Alfred breathes a small sigh, no doubt hoping for a bit more interest by now but accepting as always that things are what they are. “Very well. I shall be up shortly with your nightly repast.” 

“Thanks, Alfred.” 

* * *

Tim is waiting outside the door when Alfred leaves the room. “Well?” the young man asks, trying but failing to look like he wasn’t hovering. 

Alfred is careful to shut the door before he turns, sighs, and shakes his head. Project Get Grayson Downstairs was an abysmal failure. "I'm afraid we'll have to try something else, Master Tim." 

Tim thins his lips and nods tersely. Well. If Mohammad won’t come to the mountain… they’ll just have to bring the mountain to Mohammad. He turns on his heel and goes to gather supplies. And reinforcements. 

* * *

Five minutes later he’s back with his laptop, his phone in his pocket, and a (quick and dirty) plan in place. (It helped that everyone he wanted was only a few doors down.) 

He knocks. 

“Who is it?” 

“Tim.” 

“...Come in.” 

He grins but takes care to smooth out his expression before he actually enters. That was easier than he thought. (Dick’s been denying people who are not-Alfred or not-Bruce into his room all week.) (This. This is progress.) (They might actually have a chance of pulling this off.) 

“Hey, you.” 

“Hey,” he greets, and barrels straight on before Dick can say anything. “Do you mind if I do some studying here? Damian’s being a _pain_ today.” He’s more than willing to throw his youngest brother under the proverbial bus to get some eldest-brother-time in. It also gives him an opening to _stay_ here. 

Dick shrugs and gestures vaguely around the room. “Sure.” 

_Success!_ He mentally fist-pumps and plops himself down against the bed and opens the laptop, careful to casually arrange himself so the screen is not legible from Dick’s angle. (He’s a Robin. He is also a Drake. He’s a past master of stealth.) Beside him, he puts his phone, open to the kids’ group chat, casts that up onto his screen, and mentally cracks his knuckles. 

Heh. 

Dick’s not gonna know what hits him. 

The soft clickety-clack of tapping keys fills the room as Tim settles down to work. Besides, he wasn't actually lying earlier. He _does_ need to research and Damian _was_ distracting him. (As all Robin’s know, the best lies are made up of truths.) 

He clicks occasionally into the group chat and monitors everyone's progress, but mostly he works. 

This way, he can honestly tell Alfred he had nothing to do with it. (He might've provided the _idea,_ sure, but he didn't actually _do it_.) 

Dick falls asleep after twenty minutes of listening to him type. 

He's very proud of himself that he continues typing for five minutes (yes, he times it, thank you) before he lets himself enter the group chat and type one word: 

_Go._

(He very manfully does not cackle aloud.) 

* * *

Stephanie pokes her head around the door (that he'd carefully left cracked open earlier) a few minutes later, eyes wide as she takes in the room, and in particular its sleeping occupant. (They've been trying to get Dick sleeping more consistently for days but feels more like _weeks_.) (Looks like this part of this crazy thing they call a plan is working. Who knew?) 

Tim gives her a thumbs up from his position by the bed and keeps typing. 

She nods, disappears for a minute, and then comes back, dragging with her Cass. Who somehow manages to ease out of Steph’s grasp, turn, pirouette, and effortlessly _flop_ over Tim's legs with far more grace than he will _ever_ have. 

He does his best not to feel jealous and moves his leg to better accommodate his sister. Meanwhile, Stephenie simply settles in and uses Tim's shoulder as her leaning post. (Because apparently it's a well-known fact in Tim's life that his sisters like to use him as a pillow.) 

Whatever. It is what is. 

He just shrugs and continues to type. He _really_ doesn’t want Dick to wake up, now that they’ve _finally_ gotten him to sleep. 

* * *

Damian walks into the room about fifteen minutes later, carrying Alfred the cat with Titus and Ace trotting along behind. 

By this time, Tim’s typing has shifted from study and research into sporadic typing into a personal word document. (He’s honestly just mucking around at this point and enjoying himself, surfing the net and typing the thoughts that come to him.) (He’ll probably stop this whole typing thing in a few minutes, once he’s sure that Dick’s gonna stay asleep.) 

He uses a gap in his tapping to wave Damiam in and over to a corner of the room, where Dick has a nest of blankets and bean bags already set up for visiting family. Just _perfect_ for lounging with a cat and a dog or two, even if only one of them is designed for laps and the other two only _think_ they are but really aren’t. 

Damian smiles at him, the expression tugging uncertainly at his facial muscles, before he moves over to the bean bags on padded feet and settles in. Somehow he also manages to settle himself silently, the little ninja. 

* * *

The final addition to their little nest arrives nine minutes later, just as Tim finally gives up on the whole typing thing and shoves his laptop to the side (but carefully so as not to disturb those sleeping in the room). 

Damian has his head tilted back, idly patting Alfred the cat and staring at the ceiling (fighting off sleep with the determination of the truly tired and young). The girls are settled against Tim, breathing deeply in the throes of sleep themselves. 

Jason eases himself into the room, pushing Duke in front of him, spare hand flashing in their sign language they use amongst themselves. _Sorry took time. Lightboy thought not belong._

_Idiot,_ Tim signs back, expression fond. He points determinedly to the floor. _Sit. Join pile, plenty room._

* * *

An hour later, Bruce arrives at the dining room at the usual time for dinner but immediately stops short. The usually bustling room, that’s normally filled with his noisy and boisterous children (that he wouldn’t have _any_ other way) _especially_ at this time of day… is empty. 

No kids. 

Where are _his kids?_

He promptly moves his investigation to the kitchen, searching for answers. Instead, all he finds there is his butler (father) (bestest friend _ever_ ) preparing two drinks with a thoughtful expression. 

“Alfred,” he says, trying (failing) to keep the urgency out of his voice, “have you seen any of the kids?” 

“You know how Master Richard has not been sleeping of late.” 

“Hnh,” he grunts his acknowledgment. He knows. 

“I thought I was going to have to resort to an Alfred Special Remedy, but the kids apparently took it into their own hands to deal with the problem.” 

Oh. 

_Oh._

“So they’re…” 

“Correct.” Alfred turns to him, one of his mysterious smiles on his face. “I believe you’ll find them all in Master Richard’s room, sleeping the sleep of the deserving.” 

“All…” he echoes, eyebrow raised questioningly. 

“Indeed.” 

Oh. He glances at his watch. That means… that if he wants to go out tonight, he’ll probably be going out alone. 

Alone. 

He does the mental math, and knows that he could suit up, go out… but does he want to? That’s the question, isn’t it? Does he _want to?_

Because while he is Batman… He is also a Wayne. 

“In the meantime,” Alfred says, “I prepared a, shall we say, a nightcap for you and myself. Would you like it downstairs or in the study, Master Bruce?” 

He hesitates for a moment and listens to the Manor, to the oldest girl in his life, listening to her breathe and settle around him… listening to the peace. 

It’s… nice. 

He smiles at Alfred and allows himself to relax for the evening. “I’ll take it in the study, thanks.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I lurk on the tumbles at @[artisticabandon](https://artisticabandon.tumblr.com/).


End file.
